


Legacy

by KtrenalWinterheart



Series: Differently Rational [2]
Category: Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Adventure, Coming of Age, Dromund Kaas, Freedom, Gen, Growing power, Novelisation, Rated For Violence, Sith, Sith Culture, Sith Empire, Sith Society, Sith Training, The Dark Side of the Force, Unreliable Narrator, Villain Protagonist, learning how to adult
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 15:17:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 144,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20176426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KtrenalWinterheart/pseuds/KtrenalWinterheart
Summary: Having survived the Sith trials on Korriban, Zavahier is now apprentice to Lord Zash. But leaving the Academy isn’t the end of his training, it’s just the beginning, and Zavahier soon realises there is a lot more to being Sith than learning how to use the Force and exploring ancient tombs. Travelling to Dromund Kaas, he enters a world of politics and power plays, and the quest for Tulak Hord’s secrets brings Zavahier into conflict with the intimidating Darth Skotia. A powerful force calls to him from the shadows, and something dormant inside him begins to awaken. But with freedom comes responsibilities, and as Zavahier discovers more about his own lineage, he must make some tough decisions about who he really wants to be.





	1. The Sith Apprentice

**Author's Note:**

> This fic continues the adventures of Zavahier Ezerdus Khalla, a dark side Sith Inquisitor, and covers the events of the Black Talon and his time on Dromund Kaas. This isn't just a straight retelling of the game, however, but is a hugely expanded story that goes into the Inquisitor's storyline, personality and powers in much greater detail. 
> 
> Reading the first fic in the series, "From Nothing", isn't essential, as this story is written to stand on its own, but reading "From Nothing" will provide some context to Zavahier's background and personality.
> 
> "Legacy" is fully complete (barring some editing work), as it was written throughout 2016-2018. The third fic in the series, "Taking Shape" (covering Balmorra) is also very close to completion. The fourth fic (Nar Shaddaa), which is still untitled, is being outlined and planned. So this is a long-term, ongoing project with plenty of story already written, and I have the basic outline for everything up to and including Ziost.
> 
> A new chapter will be posted every other Friday!

_ **“We all grow up with the weight of history on us.”** _

The Sith Academy on the planet of Korriban was a large pyramid, positioned so that the rising sun shone directly into the main entrance, and the setting sun was framed behind its summit when viewed from the tombs in the centre of the Valley of the Dark Lords. The pyramid itself had three floors, though the highest one was sacred ground, accessible only to the highest ranking of Sith. And over the course of the last three months, the Academy had become home to Zavahier Khalla. What had once been a thoroughly intimidating place filled with people who wanted him dead, was now a familiar and welcoming world where he truly feared nothing. The dark energy permeating the planet felt as natural to him as his own skin.

And… well, alright, most of the other Sith here _still_ wanted him dead.

But Korriban was nevertheless Zavahier’s home.

And the fact that he now had to _leave_ was worrying him. But he didn’t want to show it, especially not to his new master. If Zavahier had learned anything during his time at the Academy, it was that while fear was a powerful emotion in his arsenal, he should never actually _look_ afraid. Other Sith would only perceive it as a weakness.

So he waited until he was clear of Zash’s office and all the way down the corridor before he stopped, leaned against the wall, and really let himself _feel_ all the emotions churning in his mind. Fear and anxiety, yes; going to the Empire’s capital worried him, for he would be amongst other Sith and Imperial personnel, and he just wasn’t very confident in his own social standing. Anger and frustration, certainly: Zash had denied him the pleasure of killing his rival, Ffon Althe.

But beneath all of that—

That thought was interrupted by the sound of footsteps – heavily booted feet, someone wearing a lot of armour, and the prickle of approaching danger resonating through the Force – and Zavahier looked up just as a large and heavily armoured Sith came around the corner. The Sith strode towards Zavahier, towering over him. But then, most people were taller than Zavahier, weren’t they? So many Sith seemed to choose their apprentices based on _size_, as if that was the only measure of strength.

It meant that Zavahier was frequently required to look _up_ to meet someone’s gaze. It was one reason he kind of liked Lord Zash: he could her straight in the eye.

Yet it also meant all those big, bulky Sith underestimated him. They assumed that because he was small, it also meant he was weak.

Zavahier just _loved_ proving them wrong in the most violent way possible.

“Well, look what we have here. A slave who thinks he can become Sith,” the Sith said, looking down at Zavahier with a great deal of contempt. It wasn’t just in the way his lip curled and his nose wrinkled, but also in his presence in the Force, radiating revulsion for everything Zavahier was. He was flanked by two acolytes, only barely visible behind the wall of muscle and armour.

Zavahier frowned as he studied this Sith. If there was one thing that he was no longer going to tolerate, it was being referred to as ‘slave’. He had put up with it from Overseer Harkun, the man who’d administered his trials, because he hadn’t had any other choice. But he’d gotten tired of his low birth being held against him a long time ago… and now he was in a position to actually act on it. He was no longer an acolyte, which meant the Academy’s rules against murder no longer applied to him.

Probably.

But this was an empty corridor. Zavahier glanced around him to confirm this was the case. Yes, they were alone here. Even if the rules _did_ apply to him, if there were no witnesses, then he couldn’t be punished for killing this Sith and his two little minions. So Zavahier opted for aggression.

“I am a Sith apprentice. Show some respect, or I’ll decorate the walls with your blood,” he said. It wasn’t the most creative threat he’d ever come up with, and maybe he should have stopped to think of something a little more eloquent. But it got his point across, which was the main thing.

“Shut up, you insignificant worm,” the other Sith snarled. “Darth Skotia has a message for you, and the message is this: you will not go to Dromund Kaas.”

Well, if anything was going to pique his interest in visiting the capital, being told _not_ to go was certainly it. So he replied, “You know, I rather think I _will_ go to Dromund Kaas, and your master isn’t going to stop me.”

“Everything you’ve done here, everyone you’ve dealt with – Lord Zash included – is insignificant,” the Sith said. “Darth Skotia has eyes and ears on Korriban. He knows what your master is up to, and he is displeased to say the least.”

“Yes, yes, very scary,” Zavahier said. He’d enjoyed antagonising his ‘betters’ his whole life, and he certainly wasn’t going to stop now. Especially not when he could feed on the anger he provoked. This Sith, who he guessed to be an apprentice like himself, was going to regret this encounter.

Though not for very long.

“Shut up, slave,” the Sith snapped. “On Korriban, Lord Zash may have her way – which is undoubtedly why you’re still alive – but on Dromund Kaas, it’s a different story. So you see, you have to die.”

Zavahier was pretty sure that was where the conversation had been heading from the start. He wasn’t in the least bit surprised, and nor was he intimidated. Still, this was his first time fighting against a full Sith, someone far more experienced than any of the acolytes he’d killed during his training.

But Lord Zash had denied him the pleasure of killing his main rival during the trials; she had killed Ffon Althe herself to prove a point to Harkun, and Zavahier was still frustrated. He’d been ready to kill Ffon himself. His desire to do so had been building from the moment they’d arrived on Korriban, and his instructors had made every effort to stoke the flames of his hatred for his rival. Yet at the very moment when he’d had the chance to actually kill Ffon, Zash had taken it from him, under the guise of reaffirming her power over Harkun. Zavahier hadn’t cared about that. He’d just wanted to finally destroy his rival, a person who had constantly looked down on him and seen him as nothing but filth.

And now he had this apprentice of Darth Skotia’s who really was just _asking_ to be murdered.

How could he resist an opportunity to vent his frustration on another Sith?

“I think we’re going to have a bit of a problem with that. You see, I think it’s time for _you_ to die,” Zavahier said in response to the other Sith’s threat. And then another idea occurred to him, and he looked over his shoulder at the creature following him. “Khem, what is it you do to Force users again?”

“I consume them and spit out their bones,” Khem Val replied, shifting his position into a combat stance and giving both the apprentice and the two acolytes a hungry look. And Khem was not a creature to underestimate; he was a wall of muscle covered in blue and red hide, numerous cybernetics, and his mouth was filled with vicious looking fangs. He was intimidating in ways that Zavahier never could be.

And he was bound to Zavahier, compelled by honour and a bond through the Force to obey his commands. That made him a very powerful weapon, one that Zavahier was more than happy to use.

The two acolytes backed away hurriedly, radiating fear. One of them said, “Um… Ortosin? Is that a Dashade? Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

“Yes, Khem is a Dashade. And he’ll eat you all if I tell him to,” Zavahier said, rather enjoying the reaction that got. The two acolytes Ortosin had brought as backup looked ready to run.

Ortosin was less easily intimidated, and he drew and then ignited his lightsabre. “Cowards! Fight, you fools!” he ordered sharply, and without waiting for his two minions to obey, he charged forward.

Zavahier reacted instinctively, raising his hand and sending a bolt of bright purple lightning at the other apprentice. Ortosin blocked it, and the lightning crackled over the blade of his lightsabre. But it slowed him down long enough for Zavahier to activate his own lightsabre, raising it just in time to parry Ortosin’s swing. The blades connected, sending out tiny red sparks, and Ortosin kept pushing forward, using raw physical strength to overpower Zavahier.

Feeling his lightsabre being pushed towards him, Zavahier pulled back, breaking the connection, and then darted to the right. Ortosin’s lightsabre struck the floor where Zavahier had just been standing, and for a moment, Ortosin was overbalanced. Zavahier kicked him in the side, and then struck him with a bolt of lightning as he struggled to regain his balance. Ortosin grunted with pain, but recovered quickly and swung his lightsabre at Zavahier again.

Zavahier parried again, but only enough to deflect the attack away from his body. He couldn’t match Ortosin for pure physical strength, so he wasn’t even going to try. Those great two-handed slashes were powerful, but they were also _slow_. Zavahier stayed light on his feet, dodging and weaving around Ortosin, and relying on superior speed and reflexes to keep him out of danger. His attacks with his lightsabre were swift and light jabs, each movement fluid and precise, poking at Ortosin whenever an opening presented itself. But it wasn’t enough to get through his opponent’s heavy armour.

“Stay still!” Ortosin snapped at him, infuriated by Zavahier’s tactics.

“And why would I do that?” Zavahier asked, ducking beneath the lightsabre that was swung at his neck, and swiping his own blade at Ortosin’s leg. It simply grazed across the other apprentice’s cortosis-infused armour.

Again.

This wasn’t working.

Zavahier changed his strategy. He still used his lightsabre to deflect and parry Ortosin’s weapon, but his focus shifted to his _real_ strength; channelling the raw power of the Force itself. He began building lightning in his free hand, but he didn’t release it, not until he knew that Ortosin couldn’t block it – right at the moment when Ortosin swung his lightsabre, expecting Zavahier to try to counter it, Zavahier lowered his lightsabre instead, then dodged sideways, and sent the burst of lightning right into Ortosin’s chest with enough power to throw him backwards.

Ortosin landed heavily on top of one of his acolyte minions, who had until that point been trying to escape Khem Val. The Dashade had already killed the other acolyte while Zavahier had been focused on Ortosin, and the moment the second one became pinned beneath Ortosin’s greater bulk, Khem slashed with his vibrosword, killing him instantly.

Now it was two against one. Ortosin struggled to get back to his feet, but every time he tried, Khem Val pummelled him with his vibrosword, knocking him down and leaving massive dents in Ortosin’s armour. Zavahier deactivated his lightsabre and focused on delivering a powerful stream of lightning to his opponent. He imagined it was Ffon he was torturing, not some pointless apprentice of some Darth he’d never met, and he savoured every scream, drawing it out as long as he could. Ortosin couldn’t stop him. He couldn’t even get up. Whenever he tried, Khem pushed him down again. The Dashade was no longer trying to kill Ortosin himself, but rather focused on keeping him down on the floor while Zavahier tortured him.

And it was _good_, wasn’t it? Zavahier _loved_ the heady feeling of being in control, of making Ortosin scream, of feeding off his victim’s terror and impotent rage. Maybe not _quite_ as satisfying as it would have been to do this to his rival… but Ffon was beyond his reach now. And this was fun regardless. Zavahier thought he would do this to every Sith who dared challenge him, just for the sheer pleasure of it.

_Everyone_ who got in his way. Sith, Jedi, traitors, rebels, Republic military. Anyone who dared to challenge him.

Except for slaves and the Imperial military, of course. He still had standards, after all.

Zavahier allowed his lightning to dissipate, leaving Ortosin lying panting on the floor. Khem placed one large foot on the apprentice’s chest, pressing him down and preventing him from getting up, while Zavahier stepped closer and looked down at Ortosin.

“I could let you live, and have you deliver a message to this Darth Skotia… whoever he is,” he said thoughtfully. “But on second thought, I think I would rather deliver the message myself.”

He ignited his lightsabre once more, feeling it appropriate to make his first kill as an apprentice by using the weapon that marked him as Sith. He drove the glowing red blade through the gap in Ortosin’s armour made by Khem’s repeated blows. The apprentice gurgled and died.

“Well, that was fun,” Zavahier commented to Khem, while looking down at the three bodies. He didn’t even wonder at how this situation had arisen. He knew very little of Zash’s plans, save that they revolved around an ancient starmap he’d retrieved – with Khem’s help – from the tomb of Naga Sadow, but Zash had already warned him that Korriban wasn’t a safe enough place to discuss those plans. This ambush only served to prove she was right… and to further stoke his curiosity. But the ambush itself hadn’t surprised him, nor did it worry him. Such things were a normal part of his life now. He’d learned to accept it and to enjoy it… with perhaps only a little twinge of resentment.

He crouched next to Ortosin’s corpse and did a quick search of his pockets. It felt a little odd, rummaging around in a dead man’s possessions… but Zavahier was also conscious of the fact that he had very few belongings of his own, and Ortosin would no longer need them. As a slave, Zavahier had never been permitted to own anything, and it had taken him a while to escape that kind of thinking. Even now, he was so used to managing without that he didn’t have the same attitude towards wealth that many other Sith did. It wasn’t an inherent part of his life, but rather something he had to work for, and then take pleasure in more because it was a surprise than due to any sense of entitlement.

The idea that he had won this fight – and thus deserved to take anything of value that Ortosin had in his possession – was a rather new one to Zavahier. And it felt strange.

Ortosin’s lightsabre had been burned out by Zavahier’s lightning, and was thus useless, but he took it regardless. It was proof of his victory over another Sith. Several credit chips in Ortosin’s possession were also damaged beyond repair, but one chip had survived Zavahier’s onslaught, so he claimed it for himself, adding a substantial quantity of credits to his otherwise rather dismal finances.

Not that he knew what he would do with these credits. Zavahier’s imagination was rather lacking when it came to money. It had taken another acolyte’s recommendation for him to consider using the credits he earned from completing dangerous missions to purchase new clothing for himself, as well as some lightly armoured robes to protect him in battle. Those had been good purchases, of course, and he’d made good use of his armour already. But now he had even _more_ money. What was he going to do with it? What did other Sith spend their wealth on? Did he even _want_ to follow their example?

Now really wasn’t the time to worry about _that_. He was standing next to three corpses, and while some people would turn a blind eye to that – Karroh and Zash, for example – most other Sith would use it as further proof that Zavahier didn’t deserve to be Sith.

“Come on, let’s get out of here before someone comes,” Zavahier said to Khem as he stood. He stepped over the bodies of Ortosin and the two acolytes, and made his way swiftly down the corridor. The rules of the Academy strictly forbade murder amongst the acolytes, and while he was almost entirely certain that this rule didn’t apply to disputes between apprentices, he wasn’t sure enough to risk being found at the scene. He had been punished for breaking Academy rules once before, and had only barely survived. He was in no hurry to repeat the experience.

“When will we go to the tomb of Tulak Hord?” Khem asked as he followed Zavahier towards the barracks.

“Tomorrow morning, before we leave Korriban,” Zavahier replied. “We’ll have more time for you to pay your respects than if we go now.”

Tulak Hord was Khem’s former master… and the Dashade held him in much higher regard than he did Zavahier. That wasn’t too surprising; Tulak Hord was one of the most powerful Sith of all time, and was still respected within the Empire even now, thousands of years after his death. Zavahier, in comparison, was only an apprentice… and had in fact only been an acolyte when he’d defeated Khem in single combat. While that _should_ have been enough to prove that Zavahier really was more powerful than he looked, Khem thought otherwise. His defeat had been due to being weakened by two thousand years in stasis.

Unsurprisingly, Khem wasn’t happy to now be bound to someone so much weaker and less worthy than Tulak Hord.

Yet another person who refused to see Zavahier’s worth.

But at least in Khem’s case, there was something Zavahier could actually do about it. He had the measure of Khem’s nature, and knew how to manipulate the Dashade’s code of honour: by promising to take Khem to Tulak Hord’s tomb so that he could pay his respects to his former master’s grave. It was the quickest and easiest way to earn a little respect from the Dashade, a three-pronged strategy that played into the way Khem viewed the galaxy. Zavahier would show that he acknowledged Tulak Hord’s power, that he also respected Khem’s loyalty to his former master, and that he kept the promises he made.

“I will hold you to that, little Sith,” Khem said in a low voice.

Compared to all the other things Zavahier had been called in his life – slave, filth, wretch, refuse, vermin, worm – ‘little Sith’ hardly seemed demeaning at all. At least Khem actually thought of him as Sith, which was an improvement over most of the other people Zavahier had met at the Academy.

Which brought Zavahier back to the inescapable fact that he would soon be leaving Korriban. Despite knowing his own strength, he wasn’t _completely_ sure of his place in Imperial society. He wasn’t high-born. His blood wasn’t pure. He originated from the lowest possible caste within the Empire, born the son of a slave and a Republic defector, and freed only because of his strength in the Force. The belief that he wasn’t worthy of being Sith was prevalent on Korriban, both amongst other Sith, and also within other Imperial personnel as well. They didn’t voice that opinion aloud in range of Zavahier’s hearing, because like it or not, he _was_ Sith now, and criticising a Sith was practically taboo.

But he knew how they felt. He sensed the disgust and contempt that almost everyone felt for slaves.

He wasn’t sure he could expect any different on Dromund Kaas.

Zavahier’s first sight on returning to the barracks was of a red-skinned Sith Pureblood with sharp, angular facial features and dark red dreadlocks: Karroh Dalmuri, an acolyte competing to become apprentice to Darth Baras. Because they had been in different groups and not pursuing the same position, they had built a solid friendship… and sense of trust. Karroh was, in fact, the only Sith Zavahier did _not_ regard as wholly untrustworthy. He was pleased to see Karroh was still alive, and he smiled when he spotted the lightsabre clipped to his friend’s belt; Karroh had left the barracks early that morning to attempt his final trial, and it seemed he had been successful in winning Baras’ favour.

But before he could say anything, Karroh spotted him and returned the smile. “Hey, Ezerdus. Looks like some congratulations are in order,” Karroh said, nodding to the lightsabre on Zavahier’s belt.

“Same to you,” Zavahier replied. Ezerdus was his middle name, which he had chosen to use rather than his first name; ‘Ezerdus’ just sounded more… Sith-y than ‘Zavahier’. “I knew you would make it. I assume Vemrin is dead?”

Karroh nodded, and his smile broadened. “Killed him myself when he ambushed me. He never stood a chance. What about Ffon?”

“Zash killed him,” Zavahier said, unable to avoid sounding every bit as bitter and frustrated as he felt. “Harkun tried to pass off my victory as Ffon’s. I was going to kill them both, but Zash wouldn’t let me.”

There was a sympathetic grunt from Karroh. “That’s rough. But hey, at least you made it to apprentice. It only gets better from here.”

“Yes. Someone’s already tried to kill me,” Zavahier said, a little doubtfully. In truth, he expected a lot more violence and death in his future, rather than a better and easier life. And it wasn’t even that he objected to that; he knew it was through conflict that a being was forced to change and grow stronger. Peace was, after all, a lie. He had become the strongest acolyte in the Academy largely due to Harkun’s constant attempts to get him killed. The struggle to survive had pushed him to become powerful.

And yes, he was pleased to have come this far, to reach the rank of apprentice when nine out of ten acolytes brought to Korriban for the Sith trials typically died in the attempt. He was proud of just how far he had come; the struggles he’d been through had definitely pushed him to become stronger and more confident. Yet Ortosin’s attempt on his life mere minutes after his promotion had tempered the elation of victory with a far more familiar sense of cynicism. “I suppose that means I’m doing something right,” Zavahier added.

“Don’t feel bad. Most of the people who meet you want to kill you,” Karroh teased.

“Thank you for that _wonderful_ summary of my life,” Zavahier said, though he did have to appreciate the humour of it all. Just a little. Most of the last three months had been filled with attempts on his life.

“Now come on then: you show me yours, and I’ll show you mine,” Karroh suggested with a grin. He drew and ignited his lightsabre in an obvious invitation for Zavahier to do the same.

So he did so, and then took a few steps forward so he and Karroh could do a proper comparison. The hilt of Karroh’s lightsabre was more ornate, with gold embossed carvings around the top and bottom, and the ignition button was a small red gem. Zavahier’s lightsabre was plainer in style, mostly silver with black around the blade emitter… but there was a small fang protruding from the bottom of the hilt, giving it a sharper look than the sleek design of Karroh’s. Zavahier’s also looked a lot newer, while Karroh’s was clearly centuries old.

The blades, too, were subtly different, with Karroh’s being slightly longer, broader, and…

“Is it just me, or is your lightsabre… pink?” Zavahier asked, noting the slightly pinkish hue of Karroh’s weapon.

“It’s not _pink_,” Karroh said, scowling at Zavahier. “It’s just a different shade of red.”

“You know the Jedi are going to laugh at you for having a _pink_ lightsabre, right?” Zavahier said. It probably was true that Karroh’s lightsabre wouldn’t have looked quite so pink if not for the comparison with the more scarlet colour of Zavahier’s weapon. But it was _fun_ to tease Karroh.

“If they do, I’ll kill them. Besides, my blade is _bigger_ than yours!” Karroh replied.

There was a sudden outburst of giggles from behind the nearby bunks, and a pretty Twi’lek girl with long blue headtails emerged. And when both Zavahier and Karroh stared at her, her giggles dissolved into laughter.

“What’s so funny?” Zavahier asked.

“You two! Comparing lightsabres!” she said between laughs. “You’re such… such _men_!”

Zavahier and Karroh looked back at each other, and deactivated their lightsabres at the same time, grinning a little sheepishly.

“Well, _that_ killed the moment,” Karroh commented, before nodding in the Twi’lek’s direction. “This is Vette. She’s… well…”

As Karroh trailed off awkwardly, Zavahier spotted the reason for it; there was a silver collar on Vette’s neck, a device to deliver electric shocks by way of a small remote. It was more than familiar to Zavahier, who had worn such a device for the majority of his life, and his smile faded into a frown when he realised that his closest friend was now the owner of a slave. But he could also sense that Karroh wasn’t entirely comfortable with it; undoubtedly being friends with a former slave had altered his perspective on slavery within the Empire.

“She’s your slave,” Zavahier said, filling in the rest of Karroh’s sentence.

“Yeah. Darth Baras gave her to me,” Karroh replied, not quite able to meet Zavahier’s gaze.

Zavahier thought for a moment, and then nodded, doing his best to understand, and to be as forgiving as he could be. Slavery was a widespread practice within the Empire; the vast majority of aliens were slaves, as were any humans who lived on worlds the Empire conquered, or had gotten themselves into insurmountable debt… or who had simply been born into it as Zavahier had been. It wasn’t going to go away any time soon, no matter how much he disliked it. He would be confronted by it wherever he went. It was just hard to reconcile someone he liked and respected owning another person as property.

“I get it. You couldn’t say ‘no’ to a gift from your master,” he said at last, though he was glad Zash’s gift to him had been a lightsabre and a powerful amulet, rather than another person.

Karroh responded with a nod, and then, to explain the situation to a now thoroughly bewildered Vette, he said, “Ezerdus used to be a slave as well. He was freed when his Force-sensitivity was discovered.”

“I killed my owner,” Zavahier said, though without the context of the events themselves, those words sounded a lot more malevolent than they really were. He had in fact killed his owner as part of an initial test of his strength in the Force, on the orders of the Sith who had freed him from slavery. But he’d never told anyone that, not even Karroh. He had also never mentioned that Denal Rawste had been his father, not merely his owner.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t follow his example,” Karroh added, with a bit of a smile.

“No promises,” Vette said, but there wasn’t much aggression in her voice; she actually smiled back at Karroh, expressing good humour rather than an actual threat. She didn’t seem to actually _hate _Karroh at all… which Zavahier struggled to understand.

Yet Zavahier’s displeasure with Karroh began to fade. While he would never be happy with the idea of Karroh owning a slave – and he doubted Vette liked being property either, even if he couldn’t sense any hatred in her – the fact that there seemed to be at least the beginnings of a friendship between the Sith and the Twi’lek counted for a lot. Karroh would likely never be as cruel and abusive as Zavahier’s owner had been, and he seemed to appreciate Vette’s sense of humour.

“And I see you have a new friend of your own,” Karroh said, quickly changing the subject and regarding Khem curiously.

“Yes. I freed Khem from stasis in the tomb of Naga Sadow,” Zavahier said. “He’s a Dashade, he used to serve Tulak Hord, and he wants to eat me.”

“And I will do just that, as soon as my strength is fully returned,” Khem said.

“What did he say?” Vette asked, looking at Khem watchfully and keeping a safe distance from him; Khem had spoken in his own language, which Vette clearly did not understand. And when Karroh provided a rough translation for her – his own understanding of the language gleaned through the Force, as Zavahier’s was – Vette giggled. “Wow, Karroh’s right. When your own Dashade-thingy wants to kill you, you’ve got some problems.”

“And one of those problems is being mocked by a slave,” Zavahier grumbled irritably. He didn’t mind when Karroh made jokes and teased him; they had been through enough together that a certain number of playful insults were acceptable, even welcomed. What he _didn’t_ much care for was Vette assuming the same liberty. “I don’t need a remote to shock you, either.”

“Woah there!” Vette said, backing away from him hurriedly and raising her hands in a show of surrender. “It was just a joke. Lighten up.”

“Don’t threaten Vette, Ezerdus,” Karroh said warningly, moving to stand between them, and then pushing Zavahier back, away from Vette, before he could get any closer to her, or launch an attack with lightning.

Zavahier stared at him, feeling… well… a little _hurt_, actually. He took several steps back, and then looked away. He’d gotten so used to Karroh being on his side as they trained together and helped each other through challenges that having Karroh _against _him was a deeply unpleasant surprise. And he knew it wasn’t just about Karroh wanting to protect his property.

“I think I’ll just… I have packing to do,” Zavahier said, turning his back on both Karroh and Vette, and going over to the security chest at the foot of his bunk.

“Come on, Ezerdus, don’t be like that,” Karroh said, following him. “Look, I know you’re tired. And frustrated, and angry, and a whole load of other things. But you’ve won. It’s time to relax. Celebrate your victory and have a little fun.”

“You’re right,” Zavahier admitted – a little reluctantly – and then he looked at Vette, feeling a bit silly for… whatever he was feeling. In a way, he recognised a little of himself in her; he hadn’t been the most submissive of slaves himself, and he’d always taken great joy in aggravating his owner, even though doing so had come with painful consequences. But there the similarities ended. Vette seemed to have maintained a light-hearted attitude towards life. Zavahier’s time as a slave had given him a vicious temper, which as Sith, he had then been trained to use as a weapon. Threatening Vette had been an instinctive response, something he had done without thinking.

And when he thought of it like that, the result was feeling a bit disgusted with himself, as he always did when he lashed out at someone weak and innocent. Torturing and murdering fellow acolytes no longer troubled him; far from feeling guilt, he _enjoyed_ using his powers against his enemies and rivals. He would happily murder any Sith or Jedi that got in his path. But hurting slaves bothered him. It probably always would.

And of _course_ Karroh had been right to defend Vette. Zavahier could use the Force. He could look after himself. But Vette couldn’t.

Zavahier couldn’t quite bring himself to apologise to Vette, however. He would allow Karroh to stop him from hurting her. He would even admit to being a little in the wrong here, and that he had pushed himself into near exhaustion, which certainly made his temper a lot harder to keep in check. Weeks of study and training had culminated in a painful ritual to free Khem from stasis, followed by several challenging battles – against Khem himself, then a Terentatek, and then coming close to attacking Harkun and Ffon, and then fighting Ortosin and his minions. He _was_ tired, and it was making him irritable.

It was his instinct to work, to keep pushing himself, and to have very little rest. That was how he’d been raised. But he was Sith now. His whole life was different now. So he made a choice. He wasn’t going to just blindly follow his old habits from his days as a slave; while a good work ethic was a fine trait to have, it didn’t mean that it was the _only _thing in his life. He could go and have fun, and there was nothing anybody could do to stop him.

“You’re right,” he said again. “We should celebrate.”

“And I have just the thing,” Karroh said, accepting the invitation to direct the conversation towards something less likely to end in violence. “We’ll go to Dreshdae. There’s a nice cantina where we can get some food and drink, better than anything they serve here. We’ll listen to some music, play some Sabacc. It’ll be fun.”

“Sounds fun. Count me in,” Vette said immediately.

But Khem Val shook his head. “I have no interest in such frivolous activities.”

“Alright, just the three of us,” Karroh said, sounding a little relieved to know that Khem wasn’t interested in joining them.

So after Zavahier and Karroh had changed out of their armour and into more comfortable robes – though Zavahier only did so after being assured by Karroh that the Dreshdae cantina had a strict ‘no violence’ policy that meant he _probably _wouldn’t need his armour – the three of them headed out the barracks, down the stairs to the ground floor of the Academy, and then out of the back entrance that led to the only town on Korriban.

Dreshdae was an old and run-down settlement; it was perched on the top of the cliffs facing the Valley of the Dark Lords and was a collection of circular buildings flanking a single central avenue. Yet despite its dilapidated appearance, there was a great deal of activity, mostly in the form of military personnel and the occasional Sith going about their business. The cantina – rather amusingly called _The Drunk Side_ – was busier still, and Karroh had to push his way through the crowd, forging a path for the much less physically imposing Zavahier and Vette… though Zavahier was determined not to be wholly reliant on Karroh, choosing to threaten to electrocute those who didn’t get out of the way quick enough. Very few people seemed willing to test whether a Sith would _really_ follow the ‘no violence’ rule.

While Karroh went to the bar and ordered the first round of drinks, Zavahier successfully bullied a small group of low ranking soldiers into giving up their table, and then sat down with Vette. She continued giving him nervous looks, and didn’t speak until Karroh returned with three beers. Only when Karroh had settled next to her at the table did she remark, “I had no idea you Imperials could be so lively,” gesturing at the people gathered in the cantina, many of whom were talking, drinking and playing games.

“Oh, we know how to have fun,” Karroh assured her. “It’s not all duty and killing.”

Yet when Zavahier and Karroh began to talk, the conversation was all business. They exchanged the stories of their final trials over several mugs of beer, with Karroh explaining how Vette had helped him reach a hidden chamber in the tomb of Naga Sadow containing the very same lightsabre that he now used, and how his greatest rival, Vemrin, had sought him out in the tomb and then been killed for his efforts.

Zavahier, in turn, told the somewhat abbreviated tale of his own adventures in the tomb, leaving out the ritual he’d used to open a sealed gateway. Karroh didn’t really understand the kind of rituals that Zavahier had such an innate gift for… and _nobody_ needed to know how much that particular ritual had hurt. So he glossed over it, using instead Karroh’s usual description of ‘dark and creepy’, before moving on to the story of his duel with Khem, and how they had killed a Terentatek together.

“And it was even bigger than the one you killed in the tomb of Marka Ragnos,” Zavahier finished proudly.

“Yeah, but you had help from that Dashade. I killed my Terentatek all by myself,” Karroh pointed out.

“Can we all agree that you’re _both_ big, scary Sith?” Vette asked.

“Yeah, alright,” Karroh said, looking to Zavahier for confirmation.

Zavahier thought about it for a moment, and then shrugged. “I suppose so,” he said. It wasn’t that he actually _believed_ Karroh’s accomplishments were any less impressive than his own. He just didn’t like Vette interfering with their conversations. The verbal sparring – the attempts to outdo each other, the competition over who was strongest – was all harmless fun. It didn’t _really_ matter whose battle with a Terentatek was the most impressive.

“No need to be so grumpy about it,” Vette said. “Lighten up and try to have fun.”

Zavahier didn’t dignify that with a response. He was just going to ignore her, and instead he turned back to Karroh. “So what’s next for you? Will you be doing anything exciting for Darth Baras?”

Karroh smiled. “Well, I’m heading to Dromund Kaas in a few days, and Darth Baras is updating the Emperor on my progress as we speak. I’m not really sure exactly what I’ll be doing, though.”

“Me either. Zash was a bit vague about it,” Zavahier said. Even if he had known a little more about Zash’s plans, he probably wouldn’t have told Karroh about it anyway. Some things had to remain secret. And he hoped Zash _wasn’t_ telling the Emperor about him. He really didn’t want that kind of attention. “But I’m leaving for Dromund Kaas tomorrow afternoon.”

Evidently Zash was less patient than Baras, and eager to have Zavahier join her in the Empire’s capital as quickly as possible, while Baras did not mind waiting a few extra days. As a Darth, Baras outranked Zash, so he probably _could _have arranged for faster transportation for Karroh if he’d wanted to. Still, it meant that regardless of what else Zavahier and Karroh might face on Dromund Kaas, they would still be able to call on each other for help if it were needed.

Not that Zavahier anticipated doing so. He much preferred to handle his problems himself… even if he had to grudgingly admit that Karroh had helped him out on several occasions, and had kept him out of trouble a few times too. And now assistance from Karroh would come with Vette as well, something Zavahier found completely unappealing, and not just because Vette was a reminder of his own experiences with slavery. He didn’t want her help if she was just going to _laugh _at him.

As the conversation moved on to other things, Zavahier found he didn’t really have much to contribute. He hadn’t had his freedom long enough to have ever had the kind of adventures that Vette had. Or to have learned to relax as easily as Karroh did. He felt he needed to keep a watchful eye on the other people in the cantina, half expecting an attack despite the ‘no violence’ rule. So Karroh and Vette talked to each other without him, sharing anecdotes and generally talking about things that _weren’t_ work related, and Zavahier found himself left out.

Zavahier’s attention drifted away from his companions, instead focusing on a young woman at the bar with a few friends. She was a sentry he’d met earlier that day, though he hadn’t learned her name; at her request, he’d retrieved the body of another acolyte who’d been killed in the tomb. She had heart-shaped face with a long, thin nose, and dark hair and eyes. And she looked even prettier in her casual clothes rather than her heavy armour.

“Hey, Korriban to Ezerdus! Do you want another drink or not?” Vette said, waving her hand in front of Zavahier’s face to get his attention. Then she followed Zavahier’s gaze, and chuckled in amusement. “Oh, I see. Zavahier’s spotted a _girl_.”

“She’s cute. Why don’t you go and talk to her?” Karroh suggested.

Zavahier blinked, and shook his head. “No, I don’t think so,” he said automatically, dismissing the idea as utterly ridiculous. She was attractive, certainly, but what would he even say to her? It wasn’t like she had particularly liked anything he’d said when they’d met earlier. She hadn’t seemed to care much for his dismissive attitude when it came to the deaths of other acolytes, and he’d only agreed to her errand because there had been the potential to earn the favour of the dead acolyte’s powerful and important father. Zavahier thought she was pretty, yes, but…

But the fear of rejection, of being held in the same contempt that he’d become used to since arriving on Korriban, was very real for Zavahier.

“You’re Sith. Just walk over there, buy her a drink, and introduce yourself,” Karroh said insistently. “I mean, you’re not as handsome as me, of course, but you’re not completely hideous.”

“Thanks,” Zavahier said sarcastically. “But ‘you’re Sith’ is not an answer to everything.”

The appalled look Karroh gave him said it all, and now he actually thought about the words that had come out of his mouth, he was inclined to agree. “Alright, so maybe it _is_ an answer to everything,” Zavahier conceded. “I just… don’t want to. I’m Sith. I can do – or not do – whatever I like.”

“Say it after me now: ‘I’m Sith and I’m too shy to talk to the pretty girl’,” Vette said with a giggle.

“Shut up before I shock you,” Zavahier grumbled. The threat was half serious, despite the previous warning from Karroh.

Karroh just sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingertips. “Could you two just get along for _five minutes_?”


	2. Paying Respects

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier fulfils his promise, and Khem pays his respects to Tulak Hord's grave.

Zavahier got up early the next morning, despite the presence of a headache and a general feeling of exhaustion. He’d probably consumed far too much beer the night before, and he was paying for it today; it hadn’t taken much to get him drunk, though pride had made him determined to match Karroh drink for drink. And after weeks of hard work, maybe a late night and a lot of alcohol hadn’t been the best of ideas.

Yet it had _probably_ been worth it.

Well…

Actually, no it hadn’t.

If it had just been him and Karroh, without any of Vette’s teasing, he would have enjoyed himself. But mostly it had felt like everything he’d said had just been another excuse for Vette to make fun of him.

He probably wouldn’t go on another such outing in future.

Besides, it wasn’t like he couldn’t have fun doing other things. Exploring tombs and going on adventures was fun. Reading and studying was fun. Learning new Force techniques was fun.

So, who needed friends, really?

In an ideal galaxy, Zavahier would have stayed in bed a lot longer, sleeping off the hangover. But he had a promise to keep, so he got out of bed before Karroh and Vette woke up. He was even awake before the group of acolytes that occupied the other side of the barracks, which itself was pretty impressive. Training started early at the Korriban Academy, and left entirely to his own devices, Zavahier wouldn’t voluntarily be awake at that time of day. But he forced himself to do it this morning, because some things really were more important than avoiding the earliest hours of the day.

He spent a few minutes packing his belongings for the journey to Dromund Kaas. He wore his armoured robes, and hidden beneath them was the purple crystal amulet that amplified his Force powers. The rest of his robes were quickly folded and stuffed into a backpack, followed by the trophies of his adventures on Korriban: a skull stained permanently red with blood, two small red crystals, a pebble taken from a water fountain on his homeworld, and a handwritten journal of his rambling thoughts, attempts at translating various Ancient Sith texts, a prophecy he’d been given and seen come to pass, and a few sketches of his possessions and interesting places around the Academy and the Valley of the Dark Lords. All of his credit chips went into a pocket in his robes, and his lightsabre was attached to his belt.

Once he was ready, Zavahier returned to Khem and said, “Alright, it’s time. Let’s go and pay our respects to Tulak Hord.”

“Finally,” Khem replied. “I had started to wonder if you would keep your word.”

“I promised, didn’t I?” Zavahier pointed out as they walked out of the barracks. Honour was so important to Khem that not only would the Dashade always behave honourably himself, but that he would respect those who treated him honourably in return. That was something Zavahier planned on using to the best possible advantage.

As they passed through the main entrance of the Academy, Zavahier paused briefly to look up at a huge obelisk in the very centre. It was carved with the swirled and distorted faces of a hundred horrified and terror-stricken people, and at the base of the obelisk were the words ‘fear is power’. Dark energy swirled around it like smoke, though Zavahier had never been entirely certain if everybody else could see that, or just him. He didn’t know the pillar’s proper name; he’d been mentally calling it ‘the obelisk of fear’ for his entire time in the Academy.

“I’m going to miss this place,” he remarked as he moved on.

Zavahier and Khem went out into the Valley of the Dark Lords. It was a steep canyon running between high red cliffs, and it was filled with both tombs and statues dedicated to ancient Sith Lords. Some of their names were remembered, and exploring those tombs formed the basis of many an acolyte’s training. Other, more minor tombs were used as storage areas for the Academy’s supplies, and some had caved in completely, leaving no lasting memorial of the Sith interred within. From these tombs – both those converted into storage bays and those entirely destroyed – Zavahier sensed intense feelings of anger and sadness. The more prominent tombs had even stronger, more complex emotions, a mixture of their original inhabitants and the countless people who had died in them since.

Sometimes he dreamed about those tombs and the spirits within them, though he could never remember exactly _which_ tomb he had been dreaming about… if it was even a tomb he had ever visited at all. Zavahier was left with the impression that there was great power sleeping on Korriban, and countless long buried emotions that stirred whenever his mind brushed against them.

Last night, he had dreamed of… a different tomb. It was darker than any of the Korriban tombs he’d visited. And there had been something there. Something… like him, but not him. Familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. And it was angry. Such anger couldn’t be contained, but spread out into the world around it, lashing out wherever it could because it was filled with such rage but didn’t understand why. Or was that Zavahier’s confusion, reacting to the anger itself without knowing the context behind it? It was impossible to work out which of the emotions had been his, and which were part of the strange, dark tomb.

In the past, Zavahier might have been inclined to dismiss such dreams. But that was before he’d learned about the power of the Force. Now he knew that dreams were sometimes visions: of the past, the present, or the future. Things that were, had been, or might become. He wished he knew more, so that he could make sense of these dreams. But there was no one on Korriban with the necessary combination of knowledge of the subject _and_ was someone he actually trusted. Karroh would dismiss the dreams as just a strange quirk of Zavahier’s mind. And Zavahier no longer trusted Lord Samus, who had been one of his instructors.

Perhaps he ought to discuss it with Lord Zash when he reached Dromund Kaas? She had always been supportive and kind to him – more than he felt any Sith Lord _should_ be, in fact – so he wondered if she might be the right person to ask. If nothing else, she was his master, which implied at least some obligation to teach him… though he suspected that for the most part, he would be expected to pursue his own studies and learn as he went along.

Zavahier pushed the matter aside for now, as he led the way along the southern edge of the Valley of the Dark Lords, towards the tomb of Tulak Hord. In keeping with the ancient Sith’s title of ‘Lord of Hate’, his tomb pulsated with a hatred so profound that it was a dark beacon that Zavahier sensed even before the tomb came into view. It was, if anything, stronger than it had been during his first visit, and the closer he got, the more oppressive the hatred felt.

But _why?_

The most obvious explanation was that the tomb hadn’t changed, but his perception of it had. He was stronger now, more in tune with his connection to the Force, and more sensitive to the universe around him.

Yet the intensity of the tomb’s seething hatred nevertheless took him by surprise, and when he went inside with Khem, he did so more cautiously than he had the first time. The weight of the passions in this place were heavy, pressing in on him from all sides, and he almost thought that hatred became more powerful the deeper into the tomb he went.

If he didn’t know better, he would have said the spirit of the tomb was responding to his presence. He had thought that the last time he came here, that the hatred was directed at him. Now he was _sure_ of it.

No.

Wait.

That wasn’t it.

It wasn’t him personally. It was Khem, or more specifically, Khem in the service of a lowly apprentice. If the spirit of Tulak Hord were here, how would he feel about seeing his most faithful servant now bound to serve a mere apprentice?

Zavahier was willing to bet that Tulak Hord wouldn’t be happy about it. And it certainly explained the intense hatred he could feel focused upon him.

That didn’t make him feel any less uneasy, however.

“I don’t think your former master is pleased to see you with me,” Zavahier said as he crept through the tomb. It was impossible to proceed with as much confidence as he would like; his own strength of will and mental defences weren’t quite enough to fully resist the overwhelming hatred that filled his senses. He was afraid, despite knowing – or perhaps hoping – that a spirit wouldn’t actually be able to harm him. The raw passion alone was enough to intimidate him.

“Why should he be pleased to see me reduced to serving one as small as you?” Khem asked. “It’s a cruel fate indeed.”

“Yes, I get it. I’m unworthy, I’m weak, and as soon as you’re strong enough, you will devour me,” Zavahier replied irritably. “I’ve heard it all before, you know. You’re about as pleasant to be around as Harkun.”

“I have destroyed armies and devoured worlds. Do not compare me to that petty little man,” Khem growled back at him.

Zavahier was silent for a moment as he paused in his tracks and looked back at the Dashade; beneath the hate he sensed from Tulak Hord’s tomb, Khem’s dislike of him seemed like such a small thing… yet it was there. “I have an idea, Khem. I’ll refrain from comparing you to idiots like Harkun, if you refrain from reminding me how worthless I am at every single opportunity,” he suggested. “I’ll treat you with respect if you offer me the same courtesy.”

“You do not deserve it,” Khem said harshly. “I serve you because honour demands it, nothing more.”

“If you won’t even consider the idea that you’re wrong about me, then how are you different to anyone else around here?” Zavahier asked.

“Because others don’t have the power to consume you,” Khem pointed out.

“They _do_ have the power to continuously try to kill me. I’m not sure there’s much difference between that and your threats,” Zavahier said. So far, he knew that as much as Khem _wanted_ to kill and eat him, if he was able to do so, he would have done it already. The fact that he _hadn’t_ meant the threats were, ultimately, completely empty. Or if not, close enough to it that there was little difference. At some point, perhaps, Khem would find a means of breaking the bond between them… but that was a problem for another day.

And as he spoke those words, he felt the aura of hatred within the tomb deepen considerably. That was far scarier than anything Khem could threaten to do to him; it prickled at the edge of his senses, warning him of danger. Yes, there was no doubt about it. The tomb _definitely_ hated him.

He shook his head, and drew on his own fear, using the power it gave him to push the hatred away from his mind, shielding himself as much as he was able. Only once he felt less threatened by the tomb’s dark energy did he continue onwards, turning away from Khem and leading the way still deeper into the tomb.

“You fear my former master, don’t you little Sith?” Khem asked, sounding rather amused as he followed. “You toy with powers that are beyond you.”

“Well, if I don’t, they will _always_ be beyond me, won’t they?” Zavahier replied.

There was a moment of silence from Khem as he considered this, before reluctantly conceding the point with a grunt. And then he said, “Your ambition is worthy of respect, at least.”

Zavahier couldn’t resist a smile, pleased to have gotten that tiny admission from the Dashade. “If you think about it, Tulak Hord was small in the beginning too, and look what he became,” he said, pointing out the simple fact that very few Sith were powerful when they first began training. Though he was sure Tulak Hord had started his training at a much younger age than Zavahier had. “I suppose you could say that Tulak Hord is something of an inspiration to a lot of Sith. Myself included.”

“Perhaps,” Khem said thoughtfully. “But you are still weak. And small.”

“Size isn’t everything. And who would you rather serve? A little Sith who’s willing to work to get stronger, or a big one who thinks he doesn’t need to do anything?” Zavahier asked. “You saw what Ffon and Harkun were like. And that other idiot – Ortosin – for that matter.”

Khem considered silently for a little while. They turned several corners and were heading towards the light of the exit before Khem spoke again. “I would rather not be bound to _any_ Sith but Tulak Hord. The fact that there are Sith even less deserving than you does not mean I wish to remain bound to you. But I take your point. You desire to grow stronger. Tulak Hord would approve of that, at least.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Zavahier said. And he did. While he was still convinced that this tomb – which may or may not be inhabited by the spirit of Tulak Hord – did in fact hate him, it wasn’t really the ancient Sith’s approval he was hoping to secure. He wanted Khem’s respect. Only then would Khem actually be useful to him.

The corridor took them out of the tomb and into an open atrium, surrounded on all sides by high cliffs; it formed a kind of bowl within Korriban’s mountains, accessible only through the main part of the tomb. There was a great stone statue of Tulak Hord in the very centre, standing on a high platform that was supported by three stone pillars. Each of those pillars was perfectly aligned with one of the three entrances into the atrium; one was the tunnel Zavahier and Khem had just come through, and the other two were other parts of the tomb. Of those, the one to the left was still open and accessible. The one to the right was sealed by an enormous pile of boulders.

Beneath the statue was an altar; the first time Zavahier had been here, that altar had been covered in bones, and had been the staging area for a rebellion against the Empire, involving a mixture of escaped slaves and treasonous soldiers. Zavahier had, of course, killed them all.

Now the altar was clean, and some of the damaged stonework had been repaired. There were a number of slaves in the area, all working under the strict supervision of the sentries. Although there didn’t seem to be any scheming or rebelling going on, Zavahier nevertheless gave them all suspicious looks as he went past them. He just wanted them to know he was watching them, and would kill them if they tried anything.

But at least it was good to see that his efforts had made a difference, and that the repairs to the tomb were now proceeding at a reasonable pace.

“Why is there so much damage?” Khem asked, looking around at the crumbling walls and broken statues.

“Two thousand years and several wars with the Republic. We only reclaimed Korriban from the Jedi about forty years ago,” Zavahier explained. It felt a little strange to say ‘we’, as though he were a part of the Empire and the Sith Order. He didn’t really feel like he belonged. But he felt a connection to Korriban itself, and the thought of it under Republic control was an unpleasant one. “They destroyed a lot of the tombs while they were here. The Republic made just _being_ Sith illegal about three hundred years ago – the Anti-Sith Bill – so they didn’t make any effort to preserve any of the Order’s history while they ‘guarded’ Korriban.”

Even lacking the patriotism that many of the Empire’s citizens possessed – Zavahier considered himself Caekarran, not Imperial – he still found the damage the Jedi had done to Korriban rather contemptible. There was so much history here that _destroying_ it just felt wrong. Had the situation been reversed, and Zavahier had the opportunity to destroy the Republic’s history, he wasn’t sure he would have done the same. Only the weak and the foolish destroyed knowledge, regardless of what form it took. And if nothing else, there was value in understanding one’s enemies.

Zavahier thought it best not to mention to Khem that at least some of the damage to Tulak Hord’s tomb had been done by him. Of course, he hadn’t done it on purpose; unlike the Jedi, he hadn’t been seeking to destroy Sith history, but had in fact been trying to retrieve it. That tunnel would have caved in sooner or later anyway, and Zavahier had only hastened the process. In his defence, it had been to save his own life. But he doubted Khem would appreciate that.

“The Jedi haven’t changed,” Khem growled.

“Yes, I’m looking forward to killing them all as well,” Zavahier said, easily picking up on the Dashade’s desire to seek vengeance on those who had damaged Tulak Hord’s tomb. He took the opportunity to direct Khem’s rage against targets more deserving of death than Zavahier himself.

He began to lead the way through the atrium, heading towards the altar beneath the huge statue of Tulak Hord. This was, supposedly, the site where the ancient Sith Lord had been interred, although the actual sarcophagus was buried underneath it.

“This is it, I think,” Zavahier told Khem as he approached the altar. He didn’t go all the way up to it, however; he maintained a respectful distance, allowing Khem to decide how things went from here. He suspected that the Dashade would want to pay his respects without Zavahier actually saying or doing anything… or approaching any closer than was strictly necessary.

Khem nodded, and approached the altar, bowing his head to it respectfully. “Tulak Hord, you should have come for me. I would have prevented this,” he said in a low, melancholy voice. “I would have slain death itself and devoured all your enemies. Now you are dead, and I must serve a child.”

Zavahier turned away and wandered off towards a row of less prominent statues, in part to allow Khem some privacy as he paid his respects to his former master, but also to do a quick sweep of the atrium. He patrolled its edges, checking on the activities of both slaves and soldiers… just in case there were any more rebellions in the works. But he sensed only fearful obedience from the people he walked past; the sentries nodded respectfully and called him ‘sir’ or ‘my lord’, and the slaves simply cowered and begged him not to kill them.

That actually felt rather good. He liked feeling powerful and dangerous. He wanted the whole galaxy to fear him, to know that he could kill whenever the whim took him, and that anyone who stood in his way would be destroyed. He might only be a ‘little Sith’ now, but he wasn’t going to stay that way. He would study, learn the ways of the dark side, and exercise his power across the face of the galaxy.

And everyone who said he was worthless filth would die.


	3. Pitiful Creatures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier has an interesting encounter in the tomb of Naga Sadow.

It took Khem more than an hour to bid farewell to Tulak Hord’s grave. Zavahier didn’t listen in on what the Dashade said; he rather suspected it consisted of a lot of dramatic monologue about the mocking cruelty of the universe, and the dire straits in which Khem had now found himself. And likely a number of complaints about being bound to an unworthy apprentice. None of that held any interest for Zavahier, but he remained in the area until Khem informed him that he’d finished paying his respects.

They left the tomb of Tulak Hord together, and returned to the Valley of the Dark Lords, making a short detour to the tomb of Naga Sadow, with the intention of retrieving a relic that had been concealed there. The dark honour guard, Naman Fal, had placed it there for his son to find, but when the weak acolyte had been killed right at the front steps of the tomb, Zavahier had taken his body back to his father. In exchange, Naman Fal had given him the crystal needed to unlock the compartment where the relic was hidden.

Zavahier’s passage through the tomb of Naga Sadow was substantially easier the second time; with his Force amplifying amulet increasing his powers, a lightsabre in his hand and Khem backing him up, most of the acolytes simply fled from him rather than risk being killed. Those who chose to fight were effortlessly destroyed. And this both pleased and amused Zavahier. But he was now looking forward to seeking out greater challenges elsewhere in the galaxy. Weak, pathetic, little acolytes were so far beneath him now. Killing them was like swatting flies.

He had arrived on Korriban incredibly inexperienced and uneducated, and while he knew he still had a long way to go, his training had unlocked a passion for learning that wouldn’t be satisfied by the Academy archives any longer. He needed to be _doing _things as well as reading about them. He needed to be challenged by more dangerous enemies than acolytes who didn’t know how to use their power. Zavahier needed to find out just how far his power could take him.

The relic Naman Fal had concealed beneath a statue was a silver ring imbued with the dark side of the Force, and Zavahier claimed it eagerly. He _almost_ put it on straight away, but stopped himself at the last moment. He should study it in greater detail first, and make sure that it was safe to use. Perhaps a binding ritual was called for. It wasn’t just about the greater power such an artefact would offer him, but the fact that jewellery carried with it a sense of wealth and prestige, two things he had never had before. It might only be a small trinket, but it was pretty. It awakened a faintly materialistic desire in Zavahier, the thought that he would quite like to have _more_ nice things. He’d never had that before.

But he wasn’t above earning it for himself. That was something that set him apart from most of the other Sith he had met on Korriban; he didn’t simply assume he deserved to have anything he wanted, but was instead ready to fight – and to kill – in order to claim them. That was at the core of the Sith philosophy, something Zavahier felt he understood so much better than the privileged, high-born Sith like Karroh. It was through conflict and strife that he became entitled to the things he wanted. They would never be handed to him on a silver platter, and nor would he _want _them to be. As much as he might sometimes resent having to constantly prove himself, often by killing those who intended to kill him, he knew he would be quite bored if everything came to him easily. He craved excitement and adventure just as much as he desired power.

Fortunately those things went hand in hand. Nobody ever gained power by sitting around and doing nothing.

As Zavahier and Khem began to make their way out of the tomb of Naga Sadow, Zavahier felt something, a presence prickling at the edges of his senses, something felt through the Force rather than perceived with his eyes and ears. He stopped in his tracks, seeking out the shadows in the corners of the chamber he was currently in, feeling quite certain that _something _was watching him. He’d felt it the day before, too, when he’d come here the first time. He’d dismissed it then, concluding it was simply the lingering essence of one of the many people who’d died here. Now he wasn’t so sure. It seemed too alive to be… well, something dead.

It was Khem who found the source of it, and he strode towards a tiny alcove hidden in the corner of the chamber. He reached into it, and hauled a gaunt figure out of the crevice. He dragged it over to Zavahier and forced it down to its knees. “Why are you spying on us, creature?” Khem demanded.

“Who is this? Who speaks to Seh-run? Is it acolyte? Is it Sith?” the thing asked in a guttural language Zavahier didn’t know; he could glean some meaning behind the words through the Force, but the thing was either not very intelligent, or something was lost in the translation. And it was, without a doubt, one of the ugliest, most hideous aliens Zavahier had ever seen. It was mostly humanoid in shape, but with a single enormous eye in the middle of its face, with a large flat nose underneath and a wide mouth. It wore ragged, ill-fitting clothing, and it _stank_.

“I’m Sith. And I’m surprised a thing like you can even talk,” Zavahier said, his lip curling in revulsion as he took a step back from the creature. As he did so, it tried to stand, but Khem pushed it back down again. Even though he didn’t _really_ believe that aliens were inferior to humans, there was something contemptible about this cowardly creature.

“Seh-run can speak, yes. Seh-run can talk and walk and devour,” it said, grovelling before Zavahier and not daring to try and stand again. “Seh-run once lived in the Academy. Was once like you!”

“I doubt that,” Zavahier interrupted. While there was _something_ odd about the creature, he could at least tell that it wasn’t Force-sensitive. It could never have been an acolyte.

But maybe it had once been a slave?

That seemed to fit better.

It was still _nothing_ like Zavahier. He had never been this weak, not even when subjected to the worst abuses his owner had ever inflicted on him.

“Seh-run feasted on scraps of the beast pens… until the Overseer sent it away to starve,” the creature continued.

Although the thing was revolting in every way, Zavahier nevertheless felt a little twinge of sympathy for it, knowing how it felt to be sent away to die. Harkun had done that to him on more than one occasion, though Zavahier had always insisted on returning alive no matter what dangerous place he was sent into. In a way, then, he could understand this creature’s desire to live.

And did it not take a certain courage to dare stalk a Sith, even if the hideous alien was contemptible in all other respects?

“I suppose I can sympathise,” Zavahier said begrudgingly.

“You understand,” the creature said, apparently pleased that its words were being listened to, and that Zavahier so far hadn’t killed it. “Seh-run hungered and was mocked for it. When Seh-run was small and weak, it lived in the darkness – ate the things that crawled and hid from Sith. Then Overseer Prithor found Seh-run. Brought bones and meat for Seh-run! Made Seh-run stronger – much better than supping on worms and rats.”

That caught Zavahier’s attention, and he looked at the creature cowering before him with a new curiosity. He was familiar with Overseer Prithor, who worked in the Academy’s stables and had assisted Zavahier with the training of Shâsot, his pet Tuk’ata. If Prithor had once thought this hideous thing worthy of feeding, then perhaps it wasn’t completely worthless. “What do you mean ‘stronger’?” he asked.

“When Prithor fed Seh-run, it became more powerful. It became faster and stronger. More and more every time. But not anymore,” Seh-run answered. “Overseer Prithor stopped feeding Seh-run special meals. Kept Seh-run from getting stronger, and sent it away. Seh-run hid here, in the caves. But Seh-run has no peace! Monsters hurt it, and Seh-run is too weak to hurt monsters back. Seh-run needs strength from Prithor’s meat. Needs power.”

“If Prithor’s the one who exiled you to these caves, I doubt he’ll change his mind about feeding you,” Zavahier pointed out, though he was admittedly rather intrigued. He was sure there was more to the story than this pathetic creature had told him.

“He could! He might!” Seh-run cried, looking hopeful. “You could save Seh-run. You could find Prithor… make him give us his special food. Seh-run would be strong enough to hunt then.”

“Alright. If Prithor really is behind all this, he may be worth investigating,” Zavahier said, though he had already resolved to pay a visit to Prithor regardless. His own sense of curiosity pretty much demanded it at this point, and he would need to visit the stables to retrieve Shâsot before he left Korriban in any case.

“Thank you! Find Prithor, and Seh-run will reward you,” Seh-run promised. “Seh-run will wait for you here. Wait for its meal.”

As Zavahier walked away from the creature, Khem gave him a disapproving look. “Why do you promise to help such a weak creature, little one?”

“It’s not about helping that thing. I want to know what Prithor was doing with it,” Zavahier replied once they were out of earshot.

“Based on what I have seen of the Sith now, probably nothing of use,” Khem grumbled.

“You’re probably right,” Zavahier agreed. “But I still want to know.”

If there _was_ anything of value in what Prithor had done, then perhaps Zavahier would find a way of making use of that information. Either it would be something he could use himself – perhaps to strengthen Shâsot? – or he would be able to use the knowledge of Seh-run’s existence against Prithor in the future.

The beast pens were on the ground floor of the Academy, a large room with several rows of cages; most contained Prithor’s own beasts, but a few housed the pets of Sith Lords and apprentices staying on Korriban. As far as Zavahier was aware, he had been the only acolyte who owned a beast here, and he had done so in direct defiance of Harkun’s orders. That had actually been part of his motivation behind keeping Shâsot; after taking the Tuk’ata pup from the tomb of Marka Ragnos, Zavahier had been ordered to dispose of him. Instead, he had convinced Prithor to allow him to hide Shâsot in the stables instead. Since then, he had visited regularly to care for and train the beast, in the hopes that Shâsot would prove useful when he was older.

Zavahier went to Shâsot’s cage first, opening the door to let the Sith-hound out. The Tuk’ata had grown enormously in the last few weeks, and his shoulder now almost reached Zavahier’s hip. He had a broad, wedge-shaped head with a crown of spikes along the back of his skull, long fangs that protruded from his mouth, and two wing-like limbs rising from his shoulders were in fact venomous stingers, as well as a similar sting on the end of his long tail. Shâsot’s fur was mostly dark blue, but marked with jet black stripes, and a mane of white fur ran from his forehead to his shoulders. His small red eyes glowed malevolently. His name meant ‘passion’ in Ancient Sith, which Zavahier had learned later was a thoroughly predictable and over-used name, but now the creature wouldn’t answer to anything else.

And the moment he was released from the cage, he bounded out and weaved around Zavahier, almost knocking him over in the process. This was how he usually behaved when he was hungry, bumping into Zavahier’s legs. Then he raised himself up on his hind legs, placing his front paws on Zavahier’s chest.

“Alright, I’ll feed you,” Zavahier said, pushing Shâsot away. He filled a bowl with beast fodder and set it down for Shâsot to devour. It had been hearing a Tuk’ata speak during a battle in the Lower Wilds that had caught Zavahier’s interest in the species, coupled with discovering that they were resistant to the Force. They certainly weren’t as intelligent as Humans, but they were smarter than most other animals, and Shâsot had learned more quickly than Zavahier had ever expected. His owner had possessed a large number of beasts, and none of them had ever been as clever as Shâsot seemed to be.

While Shâsot ate, Zavahier went in search of Prithor, finding the Overseer at the end of the second row of cages. “Overseer Prithor?” he asked as he approached, knowing that Prithor could be irritable when he was interrupted.

The beastmaster turned towards him, indeed looking mildly annoyed to be spoken to while in the midst of feeding his favourite pet. “What do you want, acolyte? Or is it apprentice now?” he asked, taking note of the lightsabre on Zavahier’s belt.

“Apprentice. I’m leaving Korriban in a few hours, and I’m taking Shâsot with me,” Zavahier replied.

Prithor responded with a nod. “He’s coming along quite nicely. I’m sure he’ll serve you well.”

“I hope so,” Zavahier said, before moving on. “There’s one other thing. I’m looking for a ‘special meal’. You know the kind.”

The beastmaster’s expression darkened. “You… You’ve been talking to Seh-run, haven’t you?” he asked, before lowering his gaze, looking troubled. “That creature was… close to me when I was an acolyte. It helped me survive my trials: it travelled to places I couldn’t, told me everything it heard and saw.”

“It seems too pitiful to be useful,” Zavahier said.

“I thought the same thing at first. I didn’t realise,” Prithor replied. “It had been living off vermin before I came along. I figured out a way to make it healthier, stronger – Seh-run’s ‘special meals’.”

“So what exactly were these ‘special meals’?” Zavahier asked.

“Seh-run never knew exactly what I fed it. Its meals weren’t just beast fodder – Seh-run ate the corpses of the Academy’s failures, the bones and blood of dead acolytes,” Prithor explained rather reluctantly. “Feeding on their energy after death, it grew exponentially more powerful with every meal and became strong in the dark side.”

Alright, Zavahier really hadn’t been expecting to hear _that_.

He just stared at Prithor for several long moments. While the idea was genius, channelling the strength of failed acolytes into such a creature, granting it a weak connection to the Force and all the power that went with it, it seemed… well, slightly insane. “And you thought this was a good idea _why_, exactly?” Zavahier asked.

“Maybe taking Seh-run was a mistake, but I was—we were strong together,” Prithor replied. “When I saw how twisted Seh-run was becoming, I sent it away. It was becoming hungrier all the time, and I feared it would attack the living. But destroying it seemed impossible – it could heal any injury it suffered. I hoped it would find a new home somewhere, but it seems we must act more decisively.”

Zavahier considered this, and then shook his head as a feeling of mischief and malevolence crept over him. He didn’t care about helping She-run for its own sake, but he rather liked the idea of making the creature strong again so that it could start feeding on the living. The tomb of Naga Sadow wasn’t anywhere near dangerous enough, and would benefit from having a dangerous predator in its depths. “We could,” he said. “Or I could give it the meal it wants.”

Prithor’s eyes widened and he stared at Zavahier in a mixture of horror and disbelief, as if truly seeing him for the first time... and perhaps more than a little concerned at Zavahier’s apparent change of heart in regards to feeding the creature dead acolytes. “Aid Seh-run, and it will turn on us. One more taste of power, and it will begin hunting acolytes. I can’t allow that. Together, we must poison Seh-run,” he said insistently.

“I don’t want to,” Zavahier said. While Prithor might be bound by his obligations as an Overseer, Zavahier had no such restrictions. Nor did he have to follow the man’s orders. “Besides, Seh-run helped you. It adored you. How can you be so ungrateful?”

“We must. It’s for the best,” Prithor argued. “If I thought I could keep that thing, I would! I tried, but Seh-run isn’t what it used to be. Poisoning it would be merciful. If we poison it, it won’t survive much longer. It will hide as best it can and slowly starve. But the alternative is to let it become a living horror.”

“I’m going to feed it,” Zavahier said, thoroughly determined to do this one way or another. He rather enjoyed the image in his mind of Seh-run hunting the acolytes. He thought that just one meal would strengthen the creature, allowing it to hunt again… and then it would be able to maintain its own strength. “You can either give me the ‘special meal’, or I’ll go and make some myself.”

“Seh-run’s not loyal to the Sith, not to me, and certainly not loyal to you,” Prithor persisted, before falling into silence, gazing thoughtfully at Zavahier. He seemed to realise that if he didn’t provide the ‘special meal’, then Zavahier really _would_ go and murder an acolyte in order to feed Seh-run. “But… I have a degree of loyalty to the creature. If this is what you insist on doing, I’ll give you what Seh-run wants.”

“Perhaps the creature will prove useful again,” Zavahier said with a shrug. “It’s an interesting experiment, if nothing else.”

“Perhaps,” Prithor said doubtfully. He looked thoroughly unhappy about the whole situation, and went reluctantly to the cold storage at the back of the stables, returning a few moments later with a package of frozen meat. “This should be what you need. Feed it to Seh-run, and the creature will have the strength it desires. Let’s hope we’re not making a mistake.”

“It’s not a mistake. And you wouldn’t still have the ‘special meals’ on hand if you didn’t believe this was the right thing to do,” Zavahier pointed out as he took the package, delighting in Prithor’s misery much more than he really should have.

“The meat was supposed to be infused with the toxin first…” Prithor said.

But Zavahier ignored those words. Maybe he felt a little guilt at doing something he knew Prithor thought was a bad idea – after all, the beastmaster had been one of the few Overseers to treat Zavahier well during his time as an acolyte – but it wasn’t enough to stop him. Creating such an abomination as Seh-run, setting a living horror free to hunt weak acolytes, was just far too amusing to pass up. It would be the legacy he left behind on Korriban, lasting even when his other deeds were forgotten.

With Khem walking by his side, Zavahier returned once more to the tomb of Naga Sadow. Shâsot trotted a little way ahead of them, his long tail waving happily as he paused to sniff at a pile of rocks. An acolyte coming the other way stopped at the sight of the Tuk’ata, and drew his training sabre; Shâsot recognised the threatening gesture and growled at him.

“Leave it, Shâsot,” Zavahier said, despite how tempting it was to let Shâsot simply eat the acolyte.

Shâsot bared his fangs at the acolyte, and then moved to follow Zavahier’s command, moving at an easy, ambling pace that would have taken him well ahead of Zavahier and Khem… if not for the fact that he kept stopping to sniff things. Zavahier couldn’t help but smile at his pet’s curiosity; it was the first time Shâsot had been out of the beast pens, and apparently he was enjoying himself.

It was a shame that Khem wasn’t as easy to please. It was clear that Khem still disapproved of helping Seh-run, but he did seem willing to accept Zavahier’s argument that unleashing the creature on the Academy’s acolytes was in the best interests of the Empire as a whole, and also that after agreeing to get Seh-run the food it needed, doing otherwise would have been dishonourable. Zavahier’s main regret was that he wouldn’t be around to see what the creature became once it was back to full strength… but perhaps one day he would have the chance to come back to Korriban and find out.

Seh-run was waiting exactly where Zavahier had left it, and it sniffed the air as Zavahier approached, becoming alert and attentive when it realised that food was near. “You return, and you have meat! Seh-run smells it.”

“I’m sure you’ll find it satisfactory,” Zavahier said, handing the package of the cut and diced flesh dead acolytes to Seh-run.

The meat was still frozen, but the creature tore open the packaging and began devouring the meat enthusiastically. It was a messy process, with small pieces of meat went flying in every direction, causing Zavahier to quickly back away. But Seh-run seemed pleased, muttering as it ate, “Excellent. Excellent.”

When it was done, it turned to Zavahier once again, its wide mouth splitting into a large smile. “Seh-run’s hunger is sated! It feels its power growing now – feels the strength of the Sith, like in the Academy. Seh-run thanks you. Take your reward. Take your prizes! Trinkets Seh-run collected from the caves.”

“Thank you,” Zavahier said, looking down at what Seh-run gave him. It was a bundle of small objects wrapped in a piece of old cloth, and although most of it appeared to be worthless junk, there were a few items that looked a little interesting. Zavahier placed the bundle in his backpack; he would sort through them later to see if there was anything worth keeping. But the real reward here wasn’t the bundle of trinkets. It was knowing that he’d created something vicious and terrible, something that would tear other acolytes to pieces.

“Now grow stronger, and feast on the meat of acolytes. Many more will come to these caves,” Zavahier suggested.

“Yes!” Seh-run said, taking the suggestion to heart and seeming genuinely excited by the prospect. “Yes, Seh-run will be strong enough to hunt even Sith… Seh-run will think of you when it next feeds.”

And with that, the creature turned and bounded away into the darkness. Zavahier watched it go, now _really_ regretting that he wasn’t going to get to witness the chaos and destruction the thing wrought in his name.

But now it was time to leave. Zavahier had filled his morning with enough activity and adventure to keep himself occupied and distracted, but the time of the transport shuttle’s departure was approaching. There was enough time for one last walk through the Valley of the Dark Lords, following the path from the tomb of Naga Sadow to the spaceport; he breathed the cold air, admired the great statues, and looked up at the high red cliffs. He even paused for a little while just to close his eyes and focus on the dark energy that permeated Korriban, enjoying the feel of it for the last time. He really was going to miss Korriban. Despite how he’d often been mistreated by other Sith, the planet itself had become his home. He felt like he belonged here, something he’d never felt about Caekarro, his original homeworld.

But maybe he would like Dromund Kaas too.

As he passed the Academy, he was stopped by a timid looking acolyte who thrust a small box into his hands.

“I have to give you this,” the acolyte said. “I made a bargain with the hermit in Ajunta Pall’s tomb – the one called Spindrall. He said that I could only leave his sight alive if I passed along this, his ‘final gift for the one who will shape fates both future and ancient’. Those were his words, his exact words. I had to be exact.”

Then the acolyte fled, leaving a rather confused Zavahier with the small box, which when opened revealed a purple crystal. Visiting Spindrall was the first trial Zavahier had completed; he’d fought his way through the tomb of Ajunta Pall so that the hermit could evaluate his potential. The other acolytes in the group were taught the Sith Code, but Spindrall had made Zavahier fight and kill six failed acolytes at once to prove his worth. At the time, he’d assumed that Spindrall thought him unworthy, and that was why he’d been forced to fight.

But this seemed to suggest otherwise.

And what did he mean by ‘the one who will shape fates both future and ancient’?

Was that a prophecy?

It certainly sounded like one, and Zavahier knew that Spindrall was considered to be a prophet, at least by some Sith. Zash certainly believed, though Harkun had always written the hermit off as nothing more than a madman who lived in the tombs. But Harkun had always underestimated Zavahier too, so his opinion counted for very little.

He also knew of one other prophecy about him, and that one had come true: Overseer Ragate had foreseen his duel with Khem, and had predicted that Khem would become bound to him.

So that only proved that prophecies _could_ be real.

Therefore, it was at least _possible_ that this one was too.

Yet Zavahier knew he would likely not know what this prophecy meant until whatever Spindrall had seen eventually came to pass. Perhaps he would never know its true meaning – and he knew that some Sith had been known to destroy themselves in futile attempts to force prophecies to come true. He wouldn’t make that mistake. Though Spindrall’s words were intriguing, and he _really_ wanted to know what the old man had seen of his future, he wasn’t going to pursue it to the exclusion of all else. He would pursue his own goals, and confront every challenge head on.

But it was nice to believe that one day his actions would be significant enough to shape the fates of others.

Still mulling this over, Zavahier continued on to the spaceport – which was rather small, consisting only of two landing pads – and gave his travel documents to the pilot. There was a short delay caused by the presence of Shâsot; the booking for the flight included Zavahier and Khem, but since Zash hadn’t known about the Tuk’ata, she hadn’t made arrangements for him. The pilot tried to argue that Shâsot couldn’t be taken onto the shuttle.

Zavahier dealt with the problem in the swiftest way possible, by delivering a sharp electric shock to the man. “He’s coming with me, and there’s nothing you can do about it,” he said darkly, quite ready to shock the man again if he needed to.

But the pilot quickly backed down. Keeping his life was more important than having the correct paperwork for the transport of a Tuk’ata, and ultimately, very few Imperial officers were willing to tell a Sith that he couldn’t do something. So with no further arguments, Zavahier, Khem and Shâsot boarded the shuttle. There were no other Sith leaving Korriban on this shuttle, but the passenger compartment did contain several soldiers who were being reassigned. They bowed their heads respectfully to Zavahier as he found a seat near the back of the shuttle, with Shâsot lying down on the floor in front of him.

Khem managed to squeeze into a seat as well, though it wasn’t really designed for a being of his size, and he looked incredibly uncomfortable. He glowered around at the other passengers, as if daring them to laugh at him. None of them did.

As the shuttle took off, Zavahier opened his pack and began looking through the bundle of objects Seh-run had given him. As expected, most of them were worthless; tiny pieces of stone tablets, the big toe of a statue, and a piece of metal that had probably once been the casing of a lightsabre. But amidst the junk was an orange crystal – likely also from a lightsabre – and an almost wholly intact tablet inscribed with Sith text.

Zavahier sat back in his seat, packing away the items he wanted to keep – including the statue’s toe, just because it amused him – and putting the others into waste disposal. Then he pulled out his journal and began writing, recording his final thoughts on Korriban and his training within the Academy, as well as describing his encounter with Seh-run and the message from Spindrall. Maybe he liked the thought that one day, when he ruled the Empire and the galaxy trembled in fear at the mere mention of his name, this journal might be part of the Sith archives, referred to by future acolytes much as he had read the journals of the Sith who’d come before him.

Or perhaps not.

If he ever gained any real power, he wouldn’t want _anyone_ knowing about his humble beginnings. Secrecy was strength.

But writing served another purpose. As a slave, a formal education hadn’t been available to him, and he had only recently been taught how to read and write. The journal was good practice, and writing it by hand forced him to really _focus_ on his spelling and grammar, which his datapad would have automatically corrected for him. And there was just something enjoyable about the tactile sensations of putting ink to paper.

Writing his journal kept Zavahier occupied for several hours, but as the afternoon rolled into evening, he became bored and restless, and took to pacing up and down the central aisle of the transport shuttle – while nervous soldiers watched him closely, as if fearing what he might do to alleviate his boredom. A protocol droid served dinner, which turned out to be nothing more than field rations served on a grey metal tray. Even by Zavahier’s incredibly low standards for what qualified as food, this meal was terrible, and picked at it, eating the edible portions and then feeding the rest to Shâsot. The Tuk’ata devoured the pieces of food eagerly.

Then Zavahier began playing with his lightning, passing sparks from one hand to the other, and then back again. The other passengers started looking increasingly worried, but Zavahier ignored them, focused on admiring the most instinctive and powerful of his Force abilities. He’d always been rather proud of his lightning. He was exceptionally adept at producing and controlling what was typically considered an advanced technique, and unlike most Sith, who wielded blue lightning, his was bright purple. That was a natural trait, it seemed; his lightning had always been purple, from the very first spark he’d produced, and it required no special effort on his part. Zavahier liked that his lightning stood out; it was, in a way, proof that he wasn’t just some upstart slave. He was special. He smiled to himself, remembering how frustrated that had made Ffon, whose lightning had been unremarkable in comparison.

Eventually, he let his lightning dissipate – much to the relief of the other passengers – and he even dozed for a while, catching up on some sleep. Karroh had been right about the fact that he hadn’t gotten much rest recently, and since he didn’t know what challenges awaited him on Dromund Kaas, getting some sleep now made sense.

But his sleep was restless. His dreams were filled with images of that same dark tomb, of rage and hate and confusion.


	4. The Black Talon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier's journey to Dromund Kaas turns out to be far from straightforward.

Zavahier woke with a start when the whole shuttle shuddered. His first instinct was to assume he was under attack, and sparks leaped to his fingertips. But a moment later he realised that the sudden jerk had been the force of the shuttle landing. The other passengers were getting up and gathering their belongings. He glanced at his chronometer, noting with some surprise that he’d been asleep for over eight hours, the entire journey. It seemed Karroh was right: Zavahier really had been exhausted from all the training.

“Wake up, little Sith,” Khem said.

“Alright, alright. I’m awake,” Zavahier said, quickly getting to his feet. He shoved his possessions back into his bag and then slung it over his shoulder, following the soldiers off the shuttle, with Shâsot and Khem behind him.

He found himself in a large hangar. Behind him was a blue forcefield holding back the vacuum of space, and to the right was a second shuttle, which seemed to have landed shortly before his own arrival. Other Imperial personnel were disembarking from it, and were heading in the same direction as the other passengers from his shuttle: towards an elevator at the other side of the hangar. Feeling a little uncertain of exactly where he was supposed to go, Zavahier chose to follow them. At the very least, he needed to leave the hangar, so he would see where the elevator took him. He walked with purpose and confidence. He was Sith, and behaving as if he owned everything around him was a skill he needed to hone. As was _hiding_ the fact that behaving like this was so new to him.

The elevator went up several floors, and then the doors slid open. The soldiers all filed out and then went their separate ways, some going to the left, to the right, or straight ahead. This was Vaiken Spacedock, a huge circular space station, and it seemed to be some kind of central hub for both transport and commerce. It was busy, with many people coming and going, and Zavahier couldn’t help but feel a little intimidated by these new, unfamiliar surroundings. As a slave, he’d been denied many normal human experiences, and he’d never been anywhere this crowded before. And as a Sith, he had learned to be wary of situations that he could not control. Caution just felt… sensible, even if he was supposedly safe here.

Compared to Korriban, the air was warm and slightly humid, despite extensive life support machinery maintaining the atmosphere within the station. The gravity was lighter than what Zavahier had become accustomed to on Korriban, and every step he took felt springy. Actually, that was quite enjoyable, and he had to resist the urge to bounce. That wouldn’t have been very dignified.

It was also midday, according to the station’s chronometer, rather than the late evening he had been expecting, which unsettled him a little… but this was an inevitable part of interstellar travel. Each planet had different day and night cycles, and that was something he was going to have to get used to.

Zavahier began to explore the rest of the station, and soon realised that aside from the sheer number of people going about their lives, there really wasn’t anything here that he needed to be worried about. The outer ring of the space station was filled with shops, offering everything from weapons and armour to speeders and starship equipment. All of these were thoroughly outside Zavahier’s price range, but he enjoyed browsing regardless. He did, however, have enough credits to purchase a new journal, since his current one was almost full, a collar and several toys for Shâsot, and a box in which he could keep his growing collection of crystals.

He began to enjoy the respect he was shown too. Nobody here knew he had once been a slave – the scars from the shock collar that had once been around his neck were hidden beneath the hood of his robes – so he was simply seen as a Sith, a man who had an inherent authority over every single person he encountered. Whenever he spoke to a supply officer, he was called ‘my lord’ and treated with the utmost deference, even when he didn’t actually buy anything.

After thoroughly exploring the outer ring, Zavahier headed into the centre, where there was a large cantina. He bought himself a meal, much better than the one he’d been given on the transport, and sat down to eat, while watching other people come and go.

“You should not have brought me here, little Sith,” Khem growled, looking and sounding thoroughly displeased with the noise and activity of Vaiken Spacedock compared to the quiet of Korriban. “You may have bound my will, but such bonds can be broken, and make no mistake: I will devour you.”

Zavahier put down the piece of fruit he was eating and regarded Khem thoughtfully. “Just try it. I’ll enjoy beating you again.”

Khem glared at him even more fiercely if such a thing were possible. “I look forward to ripping those words from your delicious throat.”

“There are better things to eat. And by the time we are done, you will have fed to excess,” Zavahier replied, feeling sure enough of what the future held to be able to make that promise. There would be a lot more violence and death, and with it, more opportunities for Khem to feed on other Force-users. Better them than him.

“My hunger is never slaked, and you are no Tulak Hord,” Khem said, before making a stiff bow, a reluctant display of obedience. “But I will serve you faithfully, my master, until I am free.”

Well, wasn’t that a surprise? Clearly Khem did not have much respect for him, and maybe he never would… but this promise of faithful service was certainly far more than Zavahier had been expecting of the Dashade.

“At least following me around is more interesting than being stuck in stasis,” Zavahier suggested.

“Yes it is, little Sith,” Khem agreed after a moment.

That was probably about as close to a civil relationship as they were going to get, and Zavahier was content to accept that for now. It didn’t mean he was going to stop being wary of the Dashade, of course; at some point, their bond would break, and then Khem would try to kill him. Unless, perhaps, Khem could be convinced that doing so would be dishonourable. Betraying a master he had promised to serve faithfully wouldn’t be consistent with what Zavahier had learned about Khem’s code of honour so far. And Zavahier was still confident that this code of honour could be manipulated in time.

After finishing his meal, Zavahier made his way to the docking bay where the _Black Talon_ was waiting. It was a _Gage_-class transport, a much larger vessel than the one that had brought him from Korriban. According to his travel documents, rather than travelling in a crowded passenger compartment, he would have a whole berth to himself. He hadn’t been expecting that. But although he was only an apprentice barely out of the Academy, apparently the mere fact that he was Sith automatically gave him authority over anyone who _wasn’t_ Force-sensitive. That meant he got the best quarters on the ship in the absence of any higher ranking Sith passengers. Zavahier was _definitely_ enjoying the privilege that came with his new rank, even if it was taking him some time to get used to it. And it was such a pleasant change from the contempt Harkun had always shown towards him, or the persistent and malicious cruelty of Rawste.

As Zavahier boarded the _Black Talon_, a Duros valet - a slave - greeted him and escorted him along the corridor to his quarters for the journey, bowing and grovelling every step of the way, until Zavahier dismissed him with a spark of lightning out of sheer irritation. Respect was nice, but too much of it just grated on his nerves. It felt dishonest when someone was trying too hard to ingratiate themselves to him. Like they were just afraid of his power, but didn’t _really_ hold him in high regard. As much as he hated the disdain he received from other Sith, at least it was _honest_. It was how they truly felt.

He turned a corner, and found himself in a broad hallway that went deeper into the ship. Ahead of him were several marines in heavy black armour, and a dark-haired Navy officer, who spoke irritably to one of her subordinates: “Well, tell the captain that I’ll be back on the bridge as soon as I’ve done his errand.”

“Yes, sir,” the soldier replied, standing to attention briefly before departing, presumably in the direction of the bridge.

The officer turned her attention to Zavahier as he approached, and forced a more respectful tone of voice when she began to address him. “Good to have you aboard. I’m Lieutenant Sylas, second-in-command of the _Black Talon_. We’re your ride to Dromund Kaas.”

Zavahier frowned slightly, realising that he was the captain’s ‘errand’ that Sylas had mentioned. She probably didn’t realise that he’d overheard. But nevertheless, even though being treated with respect was new to him – and not something he really thought he deserved – he decided that he wasn’t going to be anybody’s ‘errand’, and asserting his authority was something he have to do on a regular basis. He was Sith, he was the most powerful being on this entire ship, and he _would_ be treated with respect. He needed to learn how to do this.

“Is there a reason your captain isn’t bothering to greet me himself?” he demanded, noting with satisfaction when Sylas quailed slightly. He couldn’t help but feel a little thrill, sensing her fear. Oh yes, he could definitely get used to this. No more mistreatment and abuse, no more disrespect and snide remarks. Just obedience and fear, and the pleasure that came from asserting his will over others.

“We may only be a transport, but someone needs to stay on the bridge – and the captain prefers to keep to himself,” Sylas said quickly.

It wasn’t much of an excuse, Zavahier thought, but he accepted it… for now. Besides, it wasn’t like he’d really been _expecting_ a welcome from the captain, even if he wanted Sylas to believe otherwise.

“I suppose this ship will suffice,” he said, speaking with a bored tone that was actually the complete opposite of what he truly felt. The voyage on the transport shuttle had been dull, and he expected the journey on the _Black Talon_ to be equally uneventful. But he had nice quarters to relax in, and there was something inherently enthralling about space travel. Just watching the flow of hyperspace would keep him entertained for a few hours. “How long until we reach Dromund Kaas?”

“Shouldn’t be more than a day. The _Black Talon_ makes this run on a regular basis without much trouble,” Sylas replied, and then added, “I should also add on behalf of everyone: it’s an honour to service the Sith and the Korriban Academy. Consider yourself our guest.”

Well, that was a bit more like it, wasn’t it?

The nearby marines all stood up a little straighter too, as if by standing so fiercely to attention, they could convey their respect and loyalty for their Sith passenger. Zavahier sensed that determination in them, made more intense by their fear of what he might do.

He had always enjoyed being unpredictable. It had terrified his owner. It had intimidated his fellow acolytes. It had antagonised Harkun. And now he realised it would frighten everyone he had authority over. If they didn’t know how he would react, then they would always be on their toes. They would never dare to disrespect him. And he would feed on their fear and uncertainty, gaining power from the emotions of those around him. And one day, that same unpredictability would terrify his enemies.

“You should consider yourself fortunate,” Zavahier said, though he left unmentioned exactly _why_ the crew should feel such. Were they fortunate to have him on board? To merely be in his presence? Or that he had chosen to let them live? Perhaps it was all three. Zavahier wanted them to think that. And he wanted them to be frightened of him.

“Understood, my lord,” Sylas said, bowing to him briefly. “I won’t keep you further. When we arrive in the Dromund system, I’ll have you informed. And in the meantime, your droid’s in the conference room. We picked it up with the upgrades from Geonosis: when we docked here, it mentioned your name.”

“If my droid’s waiting, then I should see what it wants,” Zavahier improvised.

He didn’t own a droid.

But he refused to show any kind of uncertainty, so he simply masked his initial surprise behind a wall of self-assurance.

“Feel free to bother the crew if you need anything else. I’ll be on the bridge,” Sylas told him, before turning on the two marines still standing so resolutely to attention. “And you, soldiers – when you’re done playing honour guard, get back to your posts. This isn’t a luxury yacht.”

Oh, so _that_ was what they were doing?

Honouring his mere presence by standing guard near him, much as Naman Fal had guarded the Dark Council chambers on Korriban?

That was nice.

Zavahier liked it.

He would have remained near them for a little longer, just to enjoy their fear and obedience, but the matter of the mysterious droid seemed far more important – and interesting.

So he left the two marines, allowing them to go back to their usual duties, and stowed his belongings in the spacious and – by his standards – luxurious room that had been reserved for him. There was a large bed with soft sheets, a private holoterminal, and a desk with computer access. The floors were covered in thick red carpets that felt slightly springy beneath his feet. There was also a window to the outside, which could be covered while the ship was in hyperspace to save the minds of people likely to go mad from seeing such things. Zavahier found hyperspace more fascinating than insanity-inducing, so he anticipated leaving the view to the outside of the ship uncovered.

Adjoining this room was were smaller quarters for Khem, and a private bathroom, with an actual bath! Having only ever used a shower at the Academy – and rarely being allowed to bathe at all as a slave – Zavahier decided he would definitely be having a bath later, just for the novelty of it.

But first: the droid.

The conference room was just beyond his quarters. There was more red carpet on the floor, and there was an oval table in the centre of the room, with a number of high-backed chairs around it. The droid, looking like a fairly typical protocol model, was standing at the back of the room next to a holoterminal. Curious about exactly what was going on here, Zavahier approached, with Khem following behind him.

“Identity confirmed!” the droid exclaimed. “Good day – I am advanced protocol unit NR-02. My functions include diplomacy, translation, manslaughter and calumniation.”

“Interesting mixture of skills you have,” Zavahier remarked.

“Indeed, I have been programmed to be highly versatile,” NR-02 replied, before getting down to business. “I have an urgent message from my master. Please stand by for delivery.”

Curiosity warred with irritation for several moments, as Zavahier weighed his desire to know more against his general dislike of being brought into this situation by deception – through the droid claiming it belonged to him – and then thrust into a meeting with the droid’s master without being given any real information. Irritation won out, if only by a narrow margin, and Zavahier said, “What makes you think I care what your master has to say?”

“I am certain you are interested. You are here, are you not?” NR-02 pointed out, catching Zavahier’s inconsistent behaviour with an irritating amount of ease. “Besides, anyone travelling through Imperial space must listen to my master.”

“So is that his job or something?” Zavahier asked. If its master _really_ had to talk to absolutely everyone who travelled through Imperial territory, then he wouldn’t have time to do anything else.

“Oh no, my master is very important,” NR-02 replied.

Zavahier gave up arguing, and instead began to pace up and down in front of the holoterminal, with his arms crossed over his chest. “Alright, let’s hear what he has to say, then.”

The droid went to the holoterminal and activated it. “This is NR-02 to Grand Moff Kilran. You are now in contact with the _Black Talon_.”

The holographic image of a tall, well-muscled man appeared in the air above the holoterminal. His dark hair was slicked back, and his officer’s uniform was impeccably clean, and decorated with the ribbons and medals of a long and successful military career. Zavahier felt rather scruffy and underdressed in comparison, and he stopped pacing, self-consciously running a hand through his hair, pushing a few untidy curls out of his face and behind his ear.

“Well, so I am. And it seems you’ve brought me just the person I’ve been looking for. Sith apprentice Zavahier Khalla?” the Grand Moff said smoothly, regarding Zavahier with something akin to polite curiosity.

“I prefer Ezerdus Khalla, if you don’t mind,” Zavahier said.

“Of course. My name is Rycus Kilran. I’m commander of the Fifth Fleet, second to the Minister of War, and – my personal favourite – the so-called ‘Butcher of Coruscant’.”

That all sounded very important, and the final title was entertaining to say the least. Zavahier actually thought he’d read a little about this man while studying the Empire’s history in the Academy’s archives. But he was still inclined to be irritable, not only with the situation as a whole, but also with his own insecurity, so Zavahier honed in on the one thing that _wasn’t_ absolutely perfect about the man now addressing him: the large scars covering the left side of Kilran’s face. “Something wrong with the hologram? Or is your face supposed to look like that?”

“The scars?” Kilran asked, seemingly unconcerned by Zavahier’s complete and utter lack of tact. “They’re an old gift from a Jedi friend. I barely notice them anymore.”

“So what’s this about?” Zavahier asked as he began to pace again. “How did you know I was here?”

“It’s apparent I need another pair of hands. So I asked NR-02 to check the ship’s passenger manifest for someone suitable for the task,” Kilran replied.

“I’m nobody’s slave to bark orders at,” Zavahier grumbled. It didn’t matter if NR-02 had specifically selected him above everyone else on board. He wasn’t going to be ordered about or commanded.

“Of course not,” Kilran said. “But do hear me out before making a decision.”

Zavahier considered refusing just on general principle, but after a moment he gave the Moff a terse nod. He would at least listen, and then decide if the task Kilran was trying to give him was in fact worthy of his time. He would probably say ‘yes’ anyway, actually; with the journey to Dromund Kaas estimated to take a whole day, he would like to have something interesting to do. But he also wanted it to be completely clear that he pursued his own agenda, and would not be ordered around like some army grunt. He didn’t mind doing favours for the military, but it had to be on _his_ terms.

“Six hours ago, the Republic engaged in an illegal border skirmish on the edges of Imperial territory. One enemy warship escaped,” Kilran explained. “The warship – the _Brentaal Star_ – is carrying a passenger of vital strategic importance. Yours is the only vessel placed to intercept.”

Much of Zavahier’s irritation with the Moff and his droid vanished. Regardless of how this meeting had been set up, any mission that started with intercepting a Republic warship was pretty much guaranteed to be exciting… and after months of training, Zavahier was eager to test himself against the _real_ enemy.

“This passenger the _Brentaal Star_ is carrying – who is it?” Zavahier asked, engaging in the conversation with much more enthusiasm now that he knew he would have the chance to strike at the Republic.

“The warship’s passenger is code-named ‘the General’. We don’t know his identity, but the Republic believes he possesses military secrets. _Our_ military secrets,” Kilran said. “I trust the reports; the General must be captured or killed. Captain Orzik – the man commanding your transport – doesn’t share my enthusiasm. He’s disobeyed my orders to attack.”

Zavahier nodded, and then, though he already thought he knew the answer, asked, “So what do you want me to do?”

“Feel free to show him what the Empire does to cowards,” Kilran suggested. “Then commandeer his ship, find the _Brentaal Star_ and deal with the General.”

At this point, Zavahier actually smiled, deciding that this meeting had absolutely been worth it. “I’ll do it,” he said, not even taking the time to think it over. He didn’t _need_ to think about it or consider the various pros and cons.

And although Khem hadn’t said anything during this whole conversation, Zavahier nevertheless felt a small amount of respect passing through the bond between them; regardless of what Khem thought of him as a Sith, the Dashade did at least approve of Zavahier’s willingness to kill cowards, hunt down traitors, and attack the Republic.

The faintest hint of a smile crossed the Grand Moff’s face as Zavahier agreed to the task. “Truly, it’s comforting to find patriots in this age of skirmishes and border disputes. We need individuals like you if we’re to survive the next war.”

Zavahier was amused by the idea that his enthusiasm for adventure and challenging himself was synonymous with patriotism. He was a citizen of the Empire, of course. Citizenship had come with becoming Sith. But that wasn’t who he was. He was from Caekarro, and Caekarro’s history with the Sith Empire was… complicated at best. Once a Sith colony, destroyed by the Republic, rebuilt from the ashes, and then proudly independent for over a thousand years, Caekarro had been reconquered by the Empire only a few decades ago. But its people – Zavahier included – still valued their independence.

And yet… he owed a debt to the Empire. That was a complicated matter as well. Zavahier knew that without his Force-sensitivity, he would never have been freed from slavery. Imperial law had required that he be trained as Sith and be considered a real person, with all the rights and responsibilities associated with that status.

Zavahier felt he owed the Empire something.

A certain willingness to protect it, perhaps.

But was that _really_ patriotism?

NR-02 terminated the communication with Kilran, and then turned to Zavahier. “I will lead the way to the bridge. Once Captain Orzik is deposed and our hijacking is complete, we may proceed to the _Brentaal Star_,” the droid said.

“I think this is going to be a lot of fun,” Zavahier remarked, still smiling to himself. “I hope there’s a Jedi on the _Brentaal Star_. I’ve always wanted to kill one.”

Zavahier retrieved Shâsot from his quarters, thinking this an ideal time to give the Tuk’ata a taste of adventure. Though Shâsot was far from adulthood, he was almost as large as a typical Tuk’ata already; his mother was an unusually large mutant, more than twice the size of others of her species, and Zavahier expected Shâsot to reach a similar size. Right now, the Tuk’ata pup was big enough to fend for himself, and therefore big enough to do some damage in battle. And Shâsot seemed excited by the prospect, trotting by Zavahier’s side, but very much wanting to run ahead. But Zavahier kept his hand on the beast’s shoulder, two fingers holding onto Shâsot’s collar, a silent instruction for him to stay by his side.

Khem walked on his other side, and NR-02 led the way, escorting Zavahier out of the passenger quarters and along a wide corridor, heading forwards through the ship. They stopped when they reached a barrier, a red shield cutting them off from the front of the ship, which was guarded by four soldiers.

“Halt!” the highest ranking soldier, a lieutenant, said firmly, raising his hand as Zavahier approached. “My lord, this is a restricted area – Captain Orzik’s command. You’ll have to leave immediately.”

“Funny, you don’t seem like a man with a death wish,” Zavahier said as he drew and ignited his lightsabre. For that was exactly how he saw the situation: the words ‘Sith’ and ‘restricted area’ did not go together in the slightest. Nevertheless, he did feel some reluctance to kill soldiers that were just following orders… even if those orders had been issued by a man who could now effectively be considered a traitor. But these men weren’t to know that, and Zavahier didn’t _want_ to kill his fellow Imperials. “But maybe I’m wrong. I suggest you back off before someone gets hurt.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. This is the command deck entry hatch,” the soldier replied stubbornly. “No one’s allowed in until we reach our destination.”

Zavahier didn’t say anything in response to that. He acted instead. He reached out and threw one soldier to the side with the Force; the man hit the wall and then dropped sprawling to the floor.

“Blasters out! Attack, attack!” the ranking officer shouted. He and the remaining three soldiers all pulled out their weapons and opened fire.

Zavahier raised his lightsabre, using it to deflect the blaster bolts away from his body. Most of them pinged off in random directions, striking the walls and ceiling. He’d never quite figured out how to redirect blaster fire back on his opponents, but his goal was only to avoid being hit himself as he began throwing lightning at the lieutenant.

Khem charged at the soldiers, completely ignoring the blaster bolts that hit him; he swung his massive vibrosword at one of the heavily armoured marines, who took the blow, before drawing his own vibrosword and striking back at the Dashade and beginning a fierce duel. The other soldiers had to get out of the way or risk being trampled, so they scattered to the sides.

“Shâsot! Kill!” Zavahier snapped the command, and the Tuk’ata launched at the man he’d thrown into the wall, tearing at him with teeth and claws. He heard the man screaming, and caught sight of a flailing limb as the man tried to defend himself. But then he had to look away, focusing all his attention on the lieutenant. A quick, sharp jolt of lightning immobilised the man for a few seconds, which gave Zavahier the time to build a larger charge around his hand and forearm, before unleashing it all as a single powerful surge of electricity.

The lieutenant screamed in pain, and the one soldier that wasn’t otherwise engaged with Khem or Shâsot began firing at Zavahier with more determination. Zavahier pushed him back with a violent surge of Force power, a mixture of kinetic energy glowing with purple sparks of lightning, before focusing again on the lieutenant. He used another burst of lightning, and then stepped forward, cutting the man down with his lightsabre.

A moment later, Khem finished off the man he was fighting with an impressive sweep of his vibrosword that removed the soldier’s head. Shâsot was busy devouring the man he’d killed, and so Zavahier ended the life of the last soldier with a quick bolt of lightning. At some point during the battle, however, one of them must have managed to press an alarm, as there were now sirens wailing further up the corridor.

“We’re going to have to fight to the bridge, aren’t we?” Zavahier said, though it was an entirely rhetorical question.

“If you are concerned about the loss of life, I assure you: the deaths of all injured crew members will be strategically insignificant,” NR-02 advised helpfully.

Zavahier supposed there was some truth to that. If he remembered correctly, a _Gage_-class transport ship had a maximum crew of about three hundred people, and it was unlikely he would need to kill every single one of them before he took command. Just the ones that insisted on fighting him. And compared to the size of the Empire, a few dozen deaths were nothing. So although he would not have said he was entirely comfortable with it, he would feel the guilt of it only as a means of empowering himself. He wouldn’t let it affect his decisions.

“What the blazes is going on?” a voice asked from behind him.

Turning around, and half expecting another fight – so he kept his lightsabre active – Zavahier saw a young woman approaching, with her sniper rifle held at the ready. Her skin was a rich royal blue in colour, with long, darker blue hair tied back into a loose ponytail, and her eyes were bright red. That fitted the description of the Chiss, an ally of the Empire. Flanking her was another woman, bald, with grey skin and dark tattoos on her face: a Rattataki. Both looked wary, but didn’t immediately attack.

“I’m commandeering the ship,” Zavahier replied, seeing absolutely no reason to be dishonest. “Just stay out of the way and I won’t have to kill you.”

The Chiss considered this for a moment, looking him up and down, and taking in both his appearance and the dead soldiers. And then, speaking slowly and carefully, as if she were dealing with someone that might explode if she said the wrong thing, she asked, “I appreciate that I might not want to know the answer to this, but: _why_ are you commandeering the ship?”

“The reason’s obvious to me,” the Rattataki remarked. “He’s Sith. Probably does crazy things all the time.”

“Only because it’s more interesting than doing the sane thing,” Zavahier replied, only half joking. “But in this case, I have reasons beyond mere boredom: Grand Moff Kilran asked me to commandeer the ship after the captain refused to follow orders.”

“We’re supposed to be going to Dromund Kaas,” the Chiss said, sounding rather doubtful as she spoke, but she nevertheless lowered her weapon. “What part of that has the captain refused to do?”

“The part where we ambush a Republic warship and kill a defector,” Zavahier answered, deactivating his lightsabre and returning it to his belt.

“Right,” the Chiss said, taking another few moments to consider this before she spoke again. “That sounds a little bit like a suicide mission, so I think I can understand why the captain would refuse to do it.”

“I think it sounds like fun. Can we come?” the Rattataki asked, and when the Chiss gave her a stern look, she added, “Look, it’s more likely to _not_ be a suicide mission if we pitch in and help, right?”

“Well… I suppose so,” the Chiss said slowly, before looking enquiringly at Zavahier. “Assuming you don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind… as long as you remember _I’m_ in charge,” Zavahier said firmly. These two women seemed capable enough, and seemingly not in the military, so bringing them under his command and using them to assist with the mission seemed like a sensible course of action. He didn’t _need_ them, but if he said ‘no’, he’d be wasting a potential resource, and risking them involving themselves anyway and then getting in his way.

“Wouldn’t expect anything else from a Sith,” the Rattataki remarked drily. “I’m Kaliyo Djannis.”

“I’m Agent Mezzeni with Imperial Intelligence, en route to Dromund Kaas,” the Chiss added.

“Sith apprentice Ezerdus. Also going to Dromund Kaas. This is Khem Val, and that’s Shâsot,” Zavahier said, first nodding at Khem, and then gesturing to the still feasting Tuk’ata. “Let’s go. Shâsot, come!”

Shâsot didn’t move, but continued biting large chunks out of the dead soldier’s body.

“Shâsot, come on,” Zavahier ordered, but the Tuk’ata ignored him, feigning deafness.

Zavahier went to Shâsot’s side and grabbed hold of his collar, pulling him forcibly away from the corpse. “Come _on_, Shâsot.”

Shâsot raised his head and snarled at Zavahier, snapping at his fingers. Zavahier only barely pulled his hand back in time.

“Alright, you can eat him,” Zavahier said, giving up on the attempt. Shâsot was big enough now that he couldn’t be pushed into doing something he didn’t want to do.

Fortunately, it didn’t take long. Shâsot ate quickly, and large chunks of the soldier’s body were inaccessible due to his armour. Only then did Shâsot trot over to Zavahier, looking distinctly pleased with himself, and he pushed his head into Zavahier’s hand.

It almost felt like an apology for snapping at him.

“I’m sorry, too,” Zavahier said, ruffling Shâsot’s mane.

“Wow, really? You’re _sorry_ for trying to stop it eating someone?” Mezzeni asked, staring at him in faint disapproval. “That thing is a monster.”

“No, he’s not. He’s just been stuck in a cage for weeks. He deserves to have a little fun,” Zavahier said. He left unsaid the thought that came after: that _he_ deserved some fun as well. But he had a feeling Mezzeni wouldn’t appreciate that particular sentiment. She seemed far too uptight for that.

But Kaliyo just grinned. “Right, and we need to have some fun too. Come on, Mezzeni, this’ll be a riot.”

The Chiss just sighed and shook her head, before moving to follow as Zavahier led the way towards the _Black Talon_’s bridge.


	5. The Perils Of Inexperience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier's inexperience has consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very sorry for the delay on posting this chapter, everyone. I had some computer issues that have now been resolved.

As Zavahier had anticipated, they didn’t get far before finding more soldiers blocking their path. The men raised their weapons and opened fire; Zavahier deflected the opening volley with his lightsabre, and snapped a command for Shâsot to attack. Khem simply charged into battle, swinging his vibrosword, while Mezzeni darted to the side and ducked behind some crates, before propping her rifle on top of them and returning fire. Kaliyo joined in with her blaster.

It made for a much more complicated battle. Not only did Zavahier need to keep track of all the soldiers shooting at him, but he had to be aware of the blaster fire coming from behind him as well. He couldn’t sprint around as easily when it came with the risk of leaping right into Mezzeni and Kaliyo’s line of fire, and he couldn’t trust that they would anticipate his movements and shoot around him. Instead, he had to concentrate on his own precognitive abilities, sensing where each bolt would be _before_ it got there. It only took a few moments for him to realise that he couldn’t effectively concentrate on his Force abilities as well as the blaster bolts flying around him.

So he raised a protective bubble around himself; it absorbed stray blaster fire, keeping him safe while he began to focus on building up a large ball of lightning in his hands. He unleashed it all in one single burst, watching with satisfaction as it detonated in the middle of the group of soldiers, striking all of them with jolts of purple electricity. Two of the men dropped to the floor, and others cried out in pain. With the soldiers either stunned or writhing in pain, it was an easy matter for Khem, Mezzeni, Kaliyo and Shâsot to finish off their respective opponents.

This was a more complicated battle, yes, but also a lot quicker. With the five of them together, they simply overwhelmed the _Black Talon_ soldiers who came to stop them reaching the bridge. Of course, Zavahier knew he didn’t _need _any of them as back up. He’d fought tougher things – both people and animals – on Korriban, so he was quite sure he could have managed this alone. But there was no denying that this was more efficient. And there was a little thrill to having people to follow his orders, too; it was fun to actually get to _use_ his authority as Sith.

The corridor turned left, and then right, still heading broadly in the direction of the front of the ship. They fought their way through a power generation room. Zavahier used his own lightning to create a surge of power in the generator that knocked a whole squad of marines to the floor, allowing them to be picked off quickly and cleanly by the rest of the group.

Beyond the power generation room were more corridors; some were guarded, some were empty… and some appeared empty until they were ambushed by marines hiding in adjacent rooms. But none of it stopped them, and by the time they reached the entrance to the bridge, only four soldiers stood in their path.

Zavahier didn’t wait for the others to attack these last soldiers. He wanted to make a dramatic entrance onto the bridge, and he wasn’t going to let anyone upstage him. Moving with Force assisted speed and agility, he threw one soldier into the wall, cut another down with his lightsabre, and blasted the last two with a violent surge of lightning. He stood for a moment amidst their corpses, and then stalked towards the front of the bridge, his lightsabre still ignited, his every movement warning of the potential for more carnage.

“All marines have been neutralised. Scanning for additional threats,” NR-02 said as he began to scan the bridge. But the rest of the bridge crew were officers and technicians, not soldiers, and they didn’t even _try_ to challenge Zavahier as he made his way towards the captain.

“What’s going on? Sir…” one of the Ensigns said uncertainly, looking towards his captain.

“Stay calm, Ensign. Everyone stay calm,” the captain ordered.

“No threats found,” NR-02 reported. “The bridge is now secure.”

“Alright, everyone listen up,” Zavahier said firmly, and loudly enough for everyone on the bridge to hear him. “I’m only going to say this once: obey or perish.”

“Hands off the consoles!” Sylas ordered quickly, before making a respectful bow to Zavahier. “We’re all listening, my lord.”

“I can handle this, lieutenant,” the Captain interrupted. “I’m Captain Revinal Orzik. I’m pretty sure I know what this is about. For the record, I take complete responsibility for my actions.”

Zavahier gave him a dark look. “Am I supposed to care?” he asked in a tone that was somewhere between indifference and derision. He really _didn’t_ care what the man had to say for himself.

“I’m not looking for a pardon,” Orzik said quickly. “I just don’t want my crew punished.”

“We’ll see,” Zavahier said non-committally. While he had no particular desire to kill any more members of the crew than he had to, really it all depended on _them_. If they did as they were told, then he’d have no reason to hurt them.

“You’re here because of the Moff, aren’t you? He must want the _Brentaal Star_’s passenger pretty badly,” Orzik said, before looking away from Zavahier. “Or maybe he just hates me. The _Black Talon_ would be destroyed chasing a battleship. I fought in the war before, and I’ll fight again – but I don’t do suicide missions.”

“I’m not looking to make a martyr of anyone. This isn’t a suicide mission,” Zavahier replied.

“I expect you believe that. It seems Moff Kilran found an accomplice even crazier than he is,” Orzik disagreed, his gaze focusing on Zavahier once again. “I’m telling you, this is suicide.”

Orzik’s expression was one that Zavahier was coming to recognise and strongly dislike. It was the look of a man who thought he knew better. An assumption that Zavahier was wrong. A vague sense of disdain for what he perceived as insanity. Zavahier _hated_ that look. He hated the assumption that he didn’t know what he was doing. He would _not _be talked down to.

Not by anybody!

He was Sith, and the whole galaxy would damned well respect him!

In a swift, fluid movement, he brought his lightsabre up to the Captain’s neck. “’Suicide’ was deciding you could ignore your superiors,” he snarled in a low voice, before slashing the blade across Orzik’s body.

The captain crumpled to the floor, and a young ensign with red hair rushed over to him, checking him over. “The captain’s dead. The captain’s dead…” she said quietly, on the verge of tears.

“Shut up, Brukarra!” Sylas commanded the ensign. Then she straightened her posture and regarded Zavahier. “You have our attention, my lord. What would you have us do?”

Zavahier felt a palpable surge of fear across the entire bridge, tinged with grief at the loss of their commanding officer.

Good.

Perhaps now they would stop resisting him and do as he ordered. “Let this be a lesson – your only hope for survival is complete and utter loyalty,” Zavahier said.

There was a chorus of, “Yes, my lord,” that rippled through the thoroughly terrified bridge crew.

“Now, someone clean up this mess. We have business to take care of,” Zavahier ordered.

“But what about—” one of the ensigns began.

“You have your instructions,” Sylas interrupted, gesturing for the man to remove Orzik’s body.

“In accordance with Article 27-A of the Imperial Code of Military Conduct, command of this vessel has been lawfully transferred,” NR-02 said briskly. “New orders are being downloaded to your consoles. Priority one: intercept the _Brentaal Star_.”

Zavahier couldn’t help but feel amused that there was apparently rules written down to deal with situations like this one. That there were specific protocols for ‘Captain killed by a Sith.’ Maybe he should acquire a copy of the Imperial Code of Military Conduct for himself. It would be helpful to know what rules applied to various situations that he would encounter in the future, and it might even give him some ideas.

“Brukarra! Do as the droid says and prepare to jump to lightspeed,” Sylas commanded.

The red-haired ensign said a quiet, “Yes, sir,” and returned to her console. There were still tears in her eyes, but she didn’t dare to actually cry.

After a few moments, the _Black Talon_ began to accelerate; the stars outside stretched into thin white lines, before being replaced with the blue swirls of hyperspace. The journey through hyperspace to intercept the _Brentaal Star_ would be a short one; the Republic warship was located near the edges of Imperial territory, a little more than an hour from the _Black Talon_’s position. The crew began clearing away more of the mess created by Zavahier’s hijacking of the ship, removing bodies and conducting a few minor repairs. There had, overall, been relatively little damage, despite Zavahier’s lack of finesse when it came to deflecting blaster bolts. Although plenty of them had struck the walls and ceiling, only a small number had actually damaged any of the ship’s systems.

Zavahier remained on the bridge, pacing in front of the viewscreen with his hands behind his back. His eyes were fixed on what he could see outside the ship; the swirls of hyperspace were a fascinating mixture of blues and blacks.

“Staring too long will drive you insane, you know,” Mezzeni said calmly as she approached him.

“So they say,” Zavahier replied, before giving a little shrug. The view of hyperspace was supposed to be an unsettling one, but he didn’t find it as such. He ceased pacing and turned to look at Mezzeni. “What do you want?”

“Did you _have_ to kill the captain?” she asked him after a moment.

“Yes,” Zavahier said simply.

Mezzeni was silent for several long moments as she looked at him thoughtfully. “I haven’t been with Imperial Intelligence very long. I’ve not worked with a Sith before, and I have to admit that I don’t understand how you think, which is… well...” she said, before trailing off briefly. “Most people are quite predictable. Captain Orzik, for example, would probably have done as you wanted, if only to spare himself and his crew. He made the mistake of disobeying orders the first time, and that got him an angry Sith storming his bridge. I doubt he’d have made that mistake twice.”

“And your point?” Zavahier asked, frowning at her.

“You probably didn’t need to kill him,” Mezzeni replied.

“Yes, I did. He disobeyed orders, and he refused to listen,” Zavahier said sharply, a few sparks bursting into the air around him, a response to the anger rising in his chest.

“_You_ refused to listen as well,” Mezzeni persisted, not giving up or backing away despite the danger of arguing with a Sith. “He was given an order to fight an unwinnable battle. No one else on this ship is strong enough or well-equipped enough to be able to do what the Grand Moff wants, except for us. You, me, Kaliyo, and your… pet monsters.”

Zavahier considered Mezzeni’s words, and then said, “You think I don’t know what being ordered to do the impossible feels like? That’s it, isn’t it? That I couldn’t _possibly_ understand what Orzik felt when he was given those orders?”

“Well, you _do_ have an advantage that most people don’t: the Force. It makes you stronger than us. And it also means things that are easy for you are very difficult for others,” Mezzeni replied.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t know what being given a suicide mission is like,” Zavahier said.

“I’m sure you had to do a lot of things to survive as long as you have. Sith training is famously brutal,” Mezzeni conceded. “And since you know what it’s like, can’t you have any sympathy for those placed in the same situation? Countless good officers are killed all the time by Sith with no tolerance for even the slightest failure. You have the crew thoroughly terrified.”

“Good!” Zavahier snapped, irritated with Mezzeni’s lecturing of his behaviour… in part because he knew on some level that she… might actually be right. Not that he really wanted to admit to that, not to himself and _definitely _not to her. “And since when is Imperial Intelligence so squeamish?”

“We’re not. I’m not. But wasting assets is foolish,” Mezzeni said. Then she paused for a moment, and then said, “Besides, doesn’t it make more sense to save your strength for the _Brentaal Star_? If there’s a Jedi on board, we’ll need you.”

Zavahier could sense when he was being manipulated – something he didn’t particularly enjoy and usually had very little patience for – and he knew full well what Mezzeni was trying to do. Yet it also gave him an opportunity to follow her suggestion without actually admitting that she might have been right about the death of the captain. “Good point,” he said at last, and then quickly moved on. “You know, I’ve not had the chance to kill a Jedi yet. I think I’ll be disappointed if there’s not one on board.”

There was a subtle threat there. The suggestion that he was content to hold off on killing anybody else… as long as he got to kill a Jedi.

“If this General is really as important as you say, I’m sure he’ll have at least one Jedi defending him,” Mezzeni said with a smile.

“Have you ever met a Jedi before?” Zavahier asked her, and when she shook her head, he added, “I have. Just once. He was a prisoner at the Academy. And he was _creepy_.”

“Oh? How so?” Mezzeni asked, sounding both curious and faintly amused at the idea that a Sith could find anything creepy.

“He was so calm. Not in a… you know, normal way, like you. You’re calm, but you still have emotions that I can read. You just don’t use them to strengthen yourself. This Jedi had no emotions at all. Nothing but peace and serenity. It was _completely_ unnatural,” Zavahier explained, though he left out the finer details, such as how the mere contact with the Jedi’s connection to the light side of the Force had unsettled him.

“So what happened to him?” Mezzeni asked. “A Jedi in a Sith Academy wouldn’t seem to have a very long lifespan.”

Zavahier just grinned, letting her believe for a few moments that her assumption was correct. And then: “We let him go. After modifying his memories so he would feed the Republic a lot of false information, of course.”

Mezzeni smiled appreciatively, as only an Intelligence operative could. “It’s nice to hear that the Sith can be clever sometimes.”

“Of course we’re clever. Well, some of us are. It’s just mostly focused on finding inventive ways to murder each other,” Zavahier replied.

“Well, I suppose it’s a good sign you still have _some_ sense of humour,” Mezzeni said.

Just as Zavahier opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted.

“Emerging from hyperspace now,” Ensign Hetter reported, as the _Black Talon _dropped out of hyperspace. At first it seemed as though the ship would crash into another ship, but the _Black Talon_ decelerated sharply, coming to a halt at a safe distance. “One _Thranta_-class warship on the scanners. Powering up…”

The ship was somewhat larger than the _Black Talon_, but it was also the most hideous ship Zavahier had ever seen. Admittedly, he didn’t have a great deal of experience in such matters, but he’d seen Imperial ships in low orbit over Korriban, as well as circling Vaiken Spacedock, and they were all sleek, wedge-shaped vessels, made up of clean lines and sharp, intimidating angles. This _Thranta_-class ship somehow managed to be both long and thin _and_ bulbous at the same time, in a ghastly clashing of two styles. The central part was cylindrical, with a broad ‘head’ at the front of the ship, and four rounded engines at the back. It looked as though the designer hadn’t been entirely sure of what aesthetic he’d been aiming for, and the result was _this._

And within moments of the _Black Talon_’s arrival, the Republic ship opened fire.

“Enemy is firing! Turbolasers, missiles – and what looks like transport pods. I’m not sure…” Brukarra said uncertainly.

“The pods are a distraction,” Sylas decided. “Return fire – aim for their power generators! So long as they’re damaged and we’re not, we have the advantage.”

The _Black Talon_ began firing back at the _Brentaal Star_ with its limited weaponry, consisting only of a few turbolaser batteries. It was all happening very quickly. Far more quickly than Zavahier – with his incredibly limited experience with space travel – could react to. He let Sylas handle the battle with the other ship. She knew better than him what to do, and commanding the space battle wasn’t his role to play in this. Only now did he really appreciate the vast difference between the two ships in both size and firepower. Yet being the underdog in conflict was a natural state of being for him. The _Black Talon _might lack weaponry, but it was protected by heavy armour, and every Imperial soldier was worth at least ten Republic troops.

When the time came to board the _Brentaal Star_, however, he would be leading the charge.

“Lieuten—Captain Sylas, sir,” Hetter said. “Engineering is reporting blaster fire… they just cut out.”

“Those pods contained soldiers, idiot,” Zavahier stated harshly. He hadn’t considered the possibility when the pods were first fired, but now it seemed blatantly obvious, even to his inexperienced eyes. Sylas probably should have realised it sooner.

“Damn it,” Sylas swore. “It must be some kind of boarding action.”

“This crew is a complete disappointment. We’ll have to address that later,” Zavahier grumbled.

“That’s really not helping right now,” Sylas said, speaking out of frustration, and then shrinking back in the face of the angry look Zavahier gave her. “If they’re in engineering, they could destroy this ship. With all due respect – I recommend you lend a hand down there.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Zavahier said; he was no less annoyed with Sylas’ incompetence, but if Republic troops had boarded the _Black Talon_, then they needed to be dealt with, and he was the most qualified to handle that.

“I’ll notify security,” Hetter said.

“And don’t worry. We won’t let those Republic scum get away,” Sylas promised.

“You’d better not,” Zavahier said warningly, before turning his attention to his companions. “Khem, Mezzeni, Kaliyo, with me. Shâsot, come. We have Republic invaders to kill.”

The thought of it excited him. Even though things were definitely _not_ going according to plan – the idea was for them to board the _Brentaal Star_, not the other way around! – just having the opportunity to fight off and destroy unwanted boarding parties was thrilling enough. Nobody, not even Mezzeni, could complain about his willingness to wreak violence and death on the Republic.

As Zavahier turned the corner that led off the bridge and into a corridor that ran down the port side of the _Black Talon_, he saw a small number of marines heading in the same direction. He broke into a run, intending on catching up with them and assuming command, adding them to ‘his’ fighting force heading to engineering. After all, repelling the boarding action would be easier if they all worked in unison, wouldn’t it?

But just before he reached them, he sensed danger. He skidded to a halt, and erected a Force barrier strong enough to halt his companions as well, combined with a shout of, “Stop!”

Kaliyo ran headlong into the barrier, and began cursing as she raised a hand to her nose. Shâsot also collided with it, letting out a startled yelp. Khem simply barrelled right through it, completely unaffected by the Force as always, but he responded to Zavahier’s shouted command and stopped in his tracks. Only Mezzeni avoided the barrier altogether, as she was bringing up the rear and had more time to stop.

“What did you—” Kaliyo started, but broke off when a huge metal cone burst through the hull of the ship. The marines Zavahier had been trying to catch up to were instantly killed from the force of the impact. “Okay, fair enough. Better a bruised nose than death.”

The tip of the metal cone slid open, and three droids, curled into balls, rolled out of it, before righting themselves and focusing immediately on Zavahier and those following him. They raised their blasters and opened fire.

Zavahier retaliated with bolts of lightning, and Mezzeni and Kaliyo returned fire as well; all three droids were swiftly destroyed, before Khem had the chance to reach them and engage in close combat.

Shâsot had charged at the droids too, ready to maul and devour them as he had the soldiers earlier… only to be horribly disappointed to find that they weren’t actually edible. He spat out a chunk of metal torn from a droid’s arm, looking disgusted and annoyed. He looked back at Zavahier, radiating confusion and disappointment. It wasn’t the first time the Tuk’ata had seen droids, of course, having already met NR-02 just an hour previously. But he’d never fought them before.

“Droids, like NR-02. You can’t eat them,” Zavahier replied to the Tuk’ata. “There will be more soldiers for you to eat later.”

“Ew…” Kaliyo murmured quietly to Mezzeni.

Zavahier pretended that he hadn’t heard anything, because there were more important things right now than arguing with them about Shâsot. Instead, he began making his way down the corridor once more, but at a slower pace, focusing all his senses on the way ahead.

“Stay behind me,” he ordered, working on the assumption that he would sense the approach of another transport pod before it actually hit. If the rest of the group were behind him, then they would benefit from his superior senses. Maybe other Sith would care little for keeping those under their command safe, but Zavahier knew there was value in using his powers to keep more than himself alive. As long as Mezzeni and Kaliyo obeyed him, then he wouldn’t risk their lives unnecessarily.

Twice more, cone-shaped transport pods impacted the side of the ship, depositing droids in their path. And twice more, they were easily defeated, simply overwhelmed and overpowered by the combined forces of Zavahier, Khem, Mezzeni and Kaliyo. Shâsot hung back, clearly uninterested in attacking things that he couldn’t eat.

At the end of the corridor, there was an elevator, which they took down to the engineering deck. And within moments of reaching the engineering level, they were ambushed by another group of droids that had breached the _Black Talon_’s hull. The ship’s computer rather helpfully chirped, “Additional security forces are needed in the cargo area to enforce containment measures. Please respond.”

“Yes, yes, we’re almost there,” Zavahier snapped at the computer as he unleashed a stream of lightning at the nearest Republic droid.

As they fought off and destroyed the droids, Mezzeni chose to remark, “Sylas is an inexperienced officer. Orzik would probably have known to order evasive manoeuvres and avoid these transport pods. Sylas just assumed they were a distraction. Her lack of experience – and yours – has cost lives today.”

“Vision is perfect in hindsight, isn’t it?” Zavahier said. “I didn’t see you making any useful suggestions on the bridge.”

“I wasn’t in command. Nevertheless, you make a valid point,” Mezzeni conceded. “If I had known better, I would have said something. Let’s just say that we’ve _all_ learned something today: that sometimes it’s a good idea to listen to older and wiser heads than our own.”

Maybe, just maybe, she was right about that. It wasn’t an easy thing for Zavahier to admit, being used to assuming that most people he encountered weren’t worth listening to… particularly those in positions of authority. But that was his history as a slave talking, wasn’t it? His owner had been nothing more than a weak bully, using his power and authority to make himself feel important, with no actual leadership ability to go along with his position. And then there were men like Harkun…

But what if… what if the Empire’s approach to leadership, that the strong would rise above the weak, and that only those who _earned_ their place would hold any rank, helped to ensure that people like Orzik got their positions because they truly had something of value to offer? And given Zavahier’s inexperience - _everything_ was new to him - perhaps it made sense to actually _listen_ to those who had more experience than him. It didn’t mean he had to blindly obey them and do whatever they wanted. It didn’t mean they owned him or controlled him. It just meant that he would use their experience when his own was lacking.

Yes, that was a powerful lesson indeed.

He just wasn’t going to give Mezzeni the satisfaction of telling her she was right.


	6. Meeting The Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier meets the Republic for the first time.

There were several more boarding parties to be dealt with on the way to the engine room. The first few were easily destroyed, but as Zavahier, Khem, Mezzeni and Kaliyo got closer, they found themselves coming up against not lightweight sabotage droids, but a heavy three-legged battle droid that opened fire on them with two massive laser cannons. Mezzeni was forced behind cover, and was quickly joined there by Kaliyo, whose survival instincts drove her to find cover as well. Zavahier, however, was much less inclined to cower just out of a matter of pride, and after surrounding himself with a protective Force shield, he engaged the battle droid, realising quite quickly that it had several key vulnerabilities.

The first was that its huge weapons couldn’t be easily moved and fired in new directions; using a burst of speed aided by the Force, Zavahier easily sprinted around to the side, while the droid struggled to shift its position quickly enough. He circled around the battle droid, relying on quick, agile movements to keep himself out of harm’s way as he targeted the droid’s second obvious weakness. With a slash of his lightsabre, he cut at the droid’s third leg, thinking that it couldn’t stand on only two legs… and completely failed to slice through the thick, heavy metal. He felt the blade of his lightsabre meet resistance, and it merely grazed the droid’s leg rather than cutting through it. For a moment, too, he struggled to regain control of his weapon, as he hadn’t expected his swift attack to be repelled.

The droid began to turn around, recognising that Zavahier was a more immediate danger than any of the others. Zavahier kept moving, dodging and weaving around the droid to stay out of its direct line of fire. At one point he simply ducked underneath its right cannon. But he couldn’t find another chance to cut at its hind leg.

“Khem, cut the third leg. In the back,” Mezzeni called out from behind the console where she’d taken cover. She had realised that Zavahier was going to be unable to get another easy attack, and so she called on the Dashade to assist.

Khem responded with a simple grunt. He had been trying to take out the cannons with his vibrosword – itself a difficult task when the droid was lumbering around in circles trying to shoot Zavahier – but following Mezzeni’s suggestion, he backed away a single step, waited for the right moment, and then…

With a powerful slash of his vibrosword, he cut through the droid’s hind leg, succeeding with pure strength what Zavahier had failed to do with his much quicker and lighter attacks. The droid fell backwards, letting out a wailing beep of alarm. It struggled to right itself, but was unable to do so, and the combined attacks from the whole group soon deactivated it permanently.

“When cutting through thick metal, you need more momentum, little Sith,” Khem told Zavahier. “Put more power into your attacks.”

Zavahier nodded, accepting the suggestion. He had little experience wielding his own weapon, and while the training sabres used at the Academy had provided some preparation, there were some aspects of lightsabre combat that simply couldn’t be replicated by any other weapon. And he understood what Khem meant: a lightsabre blade was weightless, so all the strength in an attack had to come from him. But a battle droid was constructed to be strong and dense. His swift, light attacks, useful enough when fighting organic beings – and ideal for duelling an opponent who also wielded a lightsabre – simply lacked the raw power necessary to cut through a battle droid’s sturdy limbs.

“What did he say?” Mezzeni asked, unable to understand the language spoken by the Dashade.

“If you must know, he was critiquing my lightsabre technique,” Zavahier explained with a bite of impatience, and when he saw the looks on Mezzeni and Kaliyo’s faces – the surprised expression of people who didn’t think he was capable of accepting criticism – he said, “Khem is thousands of years old and fought alongside one of the greatest lightsabre duellists of all time. I’d be a fool not to value his advice.”

It was said more for Khem’s benefit than Mezzeni and Kaliyo’s; he didn’t much care what they thought of him, but it was an easy way to let the Dashade know that his opinions would be listened to and respected. And ultimately, Zavahier _did_ find value in Khem’s thoughts on his combat skills, simply by virtue of Khem’s association with Tulak Hord. Even if the Dashade had no Force powers of his own, he had plenty of experience seeing what worked for his former master and what didn’t.

Moving on from the defeated battle droid, they continued towards the engine room. The next battle droid was more easily destroyed now that a sound strategy had been settled on; Zavahier darted around it, relying on pure speed and agility to make himself seem as great a threat as possible, giving Khem the chance to take out its legs, while Mezzeni and Kaliyo provided cover fire.

“Can anyone read me? This is engineering – we have an emergency, please respond!” a voice came through the intercom. “The droids locked us out of the control room. They’re sabotaging the engine!”

Just up ahead, Zavahier could see the place; a battle droid had just finished sealing a large door, and he could sense the presence of several terrified people on the other side. Getting them out was not the highest priority, however. To the right was a metal ramp leading down into the main part of the engine room. There were bodies littered across the floor, and an exceptionally large droid was attacking the main computer.

“Khem, Kaliyo, deal with that battle droid,” Zavahier said, pointing towards the droid that had contained the engineering crew. “Mezzeni and I will work on the other one.”

Each of his companions nodded in response to his orders, and while Khem and Kaliyo engaged the nearest battle droid, Zavahier sprinted down the ramp and into the control room. Mezzeni followed him part of the way, but then stopped, positioning herself where she would have a clean line of fire at the droid.

Zavahier stopped at the base of the ramp, sizing up the droid and trying to decide on a strategy for destroying it… or at least keeping it too busy to sabotage the engine until Khem and Kaliyo were able to join the battle. The droid was even bigger up close, easily five metres tall, a much larger version of the bipedal droids they had destroyed on the way here. It had a single glowing eye in the centre of an oblong shaped head, and it wielded an assault cannon larger than Zavahier’s whole body.

And as soon as it saw him, it started firing. But Zavahier sensed the impending attack just in time, and leaped out of the way. Mezzeni returned fire, the bolts from her sniper rifle flying over Zavahier’s head and impacting the droid’s chassis. She was doing damage, but not enough.

So Zavahier joined in with a stream of lightning, hoping to simply overload its circuits. But its heavy armour plating just absorbed his attack; the lightning left a few scorch marks, but it did no real damage. Zavahier activated his lightsabre and sprinted closer to the droid, moving swiftly around and underneath it.

The armour covering the droid’s lower legs was far too dense for him to cut through with his lightsabre; when the Republic had designed the droid, they had clearly considered the possibility that a Sith might try this very tactic. Zavahier gave up on it quite quickly. But then his eyes were drawn to a point just behind the droid’s knee, where two metal plates didn’t quite meet: the small gap was needed so the droid could bend its legs when it walked.

Instead of slashing at the weak point with his lightsabre, Zavahier stopped moving just long enough so he could _poke_ the back of the droid’s knee, thrusting his blade straight between the two metal plates. He felt some resistance, where both plates grazed the edge of the lightsabre blade.

And then he was sent flying through the air. In that moment when he’d stopped moving, the droid had swung its fist at him, and Zavahier was thrown into the wall. He fell to the floor, stunned by the force of the impact. As he struggled to reorient himself – and to stop the room spinning around him – the huge droid turned towards him again, preparing to open fire.

Shâsot seemed to launch out of nowhere, latching onto the droid’s arm with his teeth and claws. He snarled fiercely, and used all his weight to drag the droid’s arm and cannon downwards; the bolts that would have killed Zavahier instead struck the floor just centimetres in front of him.

Zavahier pulled himself to his feet, wobbling slightly, and looked around for his lightsabre. It had been ripped out of his hand when the droid threw him; he’d heard it hit the floor with a metallic thud, but didn’t know where. He spotted it a moment later on the other side of the control room, well and truly out of his reach. He felt an intense surge of fear, and reacted to it with what came naturally: a massive blast of lightning. It enveloped the droid – and also Shâsot, unfortunately. The Tuk’ata pup yelped and released the droid’s arm, dropping back to the floor. Zavahier winced, regretting the pain he’d caused to his pet. But there wasn’t time to apologise.

Now Khem and Kaliyo joined the fight, having destroyed the smaller battle droid. The Dashade charged into battle and began hacking at the huge droid’s legs, much as Zavahier had done, while Kaliyo joined Mezzeni in providing a solid rain of blaster fire. Zavahier sent several more bolts of lightning into the fray. But although all of these attacks were leaving their mark on the droid, none of them seemed to be doing enough damage to even slow the thing down.

Zavahier shook his head, trying to clear the dizziness from his impact with the wall and fall to the floor… and trying to think of _something_ that would do some real damage to this droid.

And then, a moment later…

An idea. One he was sure would work.

“Keep it distracted!” Zavahier ordered. “I need to concentrate!”

Khem, Mezzeni and Kaliyo all rose to the task, all seemingly willing to trust that he knew what he was doing… or just responding to his authority. Khem shifted his position to force the droid to turn and face away from Zavahier, and Mezzeni and Kaliyo increased their rate of fire. The latter even called out a few insults, though it was rather doubtful the droid even _had _a mother. But the noise Kaliyo made, and the rain of blaster bolts and vibrosword slashes meant the droid had plenty to focus on, pushing Zavahier from its immediate attention.

And Zavahier blocked out everything he could see and hear, and focused wholly on the power within himself. He drew on his fear, both of the droid and of the precarious situation he was placing himself in. He couldn’t dodge or get out of the way if the droid attacked him again. He had to rely solely on his companions to keep its attention off of him, trusting them to keep him safe just as they trusted that he had a workable plan. And that terrified him. _Trusting them_ scared him much more than the droid did. His instinct was to expect betrayal the moment his concentration turned inwards.

But that was what he needed right now. Intense fear, enough to make him powerful enough to destroy this droid. He could feel the Force. Feel the dark energy that swirled around him. And coming through clearer than the sounds of the battle and Kaliyo’s thrown profanity was the sound of the dark side itself, soft, melodic music that only he could hear. He built it up, and raised his hands, manipulating the energy, curling it up into a ball of pure darkness, and spoke the ancient words needed to focus and direct his magic towards the droid.

“_Jen’pragari._”

The dark energy entered the droid’s chest. It didn’t immediately obliterate it in a single blast as Zavahier had hoped, but instead began crushing it from within. Its chassis bent and buckled, and it made an awkward lurch to one side as a few important circuits were twisted and broken. The droid stumbled, and the moment it did so, Khem rammed it with his shoulder, pushing it down to the floor. He then stabbed it with his vibrosword, twisting the blade to widen a gap between two plates of armour.

Mezzeni and Kaliyo moved closer, focusing their blaster fire on the weak points created by the crushing dark energy Zavahier had unleashed, while Khem continued to stab at the droid’s chest. Mezzeni accurately planted blaster bolts into every small break in the droid’s armour, creating sparks as the circuits within were destroyed.

Zavahier didn’t contribute to the final destruction of the droid. He backed away and leaned against the wall, panting from the exertion of his Sith magic, and watching as his companions ended the battle with a resounding and convincing victory. He was, he had to admit, disappointed that he hadn’t utterly annihilated the droid with his blast of pure darkness. That would have been intensely satisfying. But he had turned the tide of the fight, allowing Khem, Mezzeni and Kaliyo to do the rest.

Once the droid was nothing more than a pile of twisted metal, Mezzeni approached Zavahier. “Are you alright?” she asked.

Zavahier nodded. “I’m fine. That just… took a bit more out of me than I expected. And it didn’t even work properly,” he said, inclined to be critical of what felt a lot like a failure. That droid should have been blasted into millions of pieces.

“It worked well enough,” Mezzeni pointed out. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“That was Sith sorcery. Magic,” Zavahier replied, smiling faintly at Mezzeni’s compliment. “It was supposed to blast that droid into tiny pieces, but it didn’t quite work. I guess the droid was too big.”

“I’ve never really believed in magic,” Mezzeni said. “That was just some Force ability you used, right?”

“Yes, I suppose you could say that,” Zavahier said evasively. It was his instinct to be secretive about his abilities and the true extent of his power, and so he said no more than was strictly necessary. Explaining how the magic worked would take something away from it, and people like Mezzeni – non-Sith – _should_ see the Force as something of a mystery.

Conscious of Mezzeni’s attention – of curiosity driven by his lack of explanation – Zavahier pushed himself away from the wall, wobbling slightly but determined to stay on his feet, and then walked across the engine room. He crouched briefly to retrieve his dropped lightsabre, and then he clipped it to his belt once again. That was another thing to feel rather disappointed about: how easily the huge battle droid had separated him from his weapon.

But he had been relying on his lightsabre far too much. He had been hoping – perhaps rather foolishly – that more practice would improve his skills with the weapon. But ultimately, it had been his ability to draw on the raw power of the Force itself that had made the difference here, not his mediocre skills with a lightsabre.

Zavahier went over to Shâsot and placed his hand on the Tuk’ata’s shoulder, gently stroking the dark blue fur. “Sorry about the lightning, Shâsot,” he said. “And thanks for saving my life.”

It was odd, really, but it was a lot easier to express gratitude towards Shâsot than to Khem or Mezzeni. Or anyone else who could talk back, really. Perhaps it was simply due to the fact that Shâsot wouldn’t consider him weak. Or… judge him at all, really.

Mezzeni approached him again, and at first Zavahier expected more questioning, but instead she said, “Give me your arm.”

Zavahier narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Why?”

“This stim will help clear your head. You don’t want to be wobbling around like that when there are Jedi to kill, right?” Mezzeni pointed out.

Acknowledging the fact that she made a very convincing argument, Zavahier held out his arm and allowed Mezzeni to inject him with the stim; after a few moments, he felt the dizziness beginning to fade, and a new surge of energy spread through him.

“And _do_ try not to get yourself thrown around anymore,” Mezzeni suggested drily.

With the Republic boarding parties thoroughly and enthusiastically destroyed, Zavahier returned to the bridge of the _Black Talon_ with what he was beginning to consider ‘his’ group. Together, Khem, Shâsot, Mezzeni and Kaliyo made for a useful squad of underlings, and while he knew the latter two would be going their own way once the _Black Talon _reached Dromund Kaas, Zavahier thought it would still be useful to have contacts in Imperial Intelligence, just as there was value in having ties with the military. If he ever wanted any real power, he would need people he could rely on… and by definition, such people would _not _be Sith.

As he entered the bridge, Zavahier heard a few fearful whispers amongst the crew, though they kept their voices low so he couldn’t hear exactly what was said. He didn’t need to, however; just from the way they spoke and the waves of fear he could feel rolling off them, he could easily guess what they were thinking. They were all far more frightened of him than they were of the Republic warship.

“Damage reports from all decks. We’re holding together, sir, but I don’t know for how long,” Ensign Hetter said to Lieutenant Sylas.

“Make sure it’s long enough, Ensign. Your life and career are at stake,” Sylas replied.

“Please stand alert. Grand Moff Kilran’s representative has returned,” NR-02 said, drawing Sylas, Hetter and Brukarra’s attention to Zavahier as he approached them.

“Congratulations, my lord. Security reports that the sabotage droids have been destroyed,” Sylas said in an ingratiating tone.

“Don’t try fawning over me. I don’t need your praise, Lieutenant. Only your obedience,” Zavahier said, finding himself irritated by the crew’s grovelling. Their fear was enjoyable, of course, but he didn’t need anybody to tell him his worth. Perhaps it was simply because he was so unused to praise… but it never felt entirely honest when somebody actually complimented him. And certainly in this case, it seemed more that the crew were so terrified of him that they thought they could placate him by showing him some admiration. But he’d much prefer they simply did their jobs.

As he spoke, a far more powerful ripple of fear passed through the bridge officers, and Ensign Hetter even said, “Oh, please, please don’t kill us…”

“Shut up, Ensign, or I’ll kill you myself,” Sylas snapped at Hetter, before turning back to Zavahier again. “We’ve penetrated the _Brentaal Star_’s outer defences. Their next assault won’t come until we enter fighter range – another minute, maybe two.”

Zavahier considered this, and then nodded. He thought that in a long, drawn out fight, the Republic were certainly at the advantage here… at least in terms of sheer numbers. But the _Black Talon_ only needed to hold the _Brentaal Star_ at bay long enough for Zavahier to find the General. And he was willing to bet that Imperial training was superior, so the Republic’s greater numbers would not be as great an advantage as it first seemed.

“Transmission coming in! Long range… it’s a message, but it’s not from the _Brentaal Star_,” Brukarra said suddenly.

But when she didn’t move to put the message through, or indeed do anything beyond announce the fact that there was a message, Zavahier said, somewhat irritably, “I’m _dying_ of suspense, really.”

“The _Brentaal Star_ must have sent a distress signal. Someone’s responding,” Brukarra said quickly. “I’ll patch the message through immediately.”

A hologram of a middle-aged woman wearing robes appeared above the holoterminal. Zavahier’s gaze was immediately drawn to the lightsabre on her belt… and his senses prickled at the sensation of her powerful connection to the light side of the Force. He’d felt it once before, but in a much younger and weaker Jedi. It had made him uneasy then, and he felt even more uncomfortable now. The sense of calm in this woman, the complete lack of emotion, was eerily chilling.

“This is Jedi Grand Master Satele Shan hailing unidentified Imperial vessel,” the woman said in a drawling accent that Zavahier associated with the Republic, though he couldn’t pick out exactly which planet she was from, as he often could when speaking to fellow Imperials. “I’m en route to your location with sixteen Republic vessels. I’m asking you to retreat before more lives are lost.”

“Are you afraid there won’t be a ship left to find? That I’ll destroy your friends before you can reach me?” Zavahier asked, responding to the Jedi in the only way he knew how: by seeing if he could provoke an emotional reaction in her.

“It is not fear I feel. I’m concerned – for you,” Satele Shan replied.

“That’s _so_ kind of you,” Zavahier said.

“The _Brentaal Star_ is under my protection. Our convoy was ambushed and I sent the _Star_ ahead. We will reunite,” Shan continued, frustratingly unperturbed by Zavahier’s attempts to rattle her. “I just crippled three Imperial dreadnoughts. I don’t wish to destroy you – the peace between Republic and Empire is fragile enough already.”

“Peace is a lie, Jedi,” Zavahier said. “The Sith know this.”

“I won’t be drawn into a philosophical debate,” Shan said. She kept her voice level, and there was still no emotion coming from her.

Yet Zavahier felt an attack on the notion of ‘peace’ was still the right way to go. He had known for some time that the reason why war with the Republic was not only inevitable, but necessary, was because the Republic wouldn’t rest until the Empire was destroyed. They had attempted it multiple times over the course of the Empire’s history – his lessons and studies in the archives had taught him that much – and there was no reason to believe they would ever stop trying. This was a battle for survival, and the ‘peace’ between Empire and Republic didn’t even exist. It was an illusion the Jedi clung to, and he wished to shatter it.

“What about the stolen secrets aboard the _Brentaal Star_? Is the General upholding the ‘peace’?” Zavahier asked, managing to express a great deal of contempt for the whole concept of peace just through his tone of voice. And he knew he was right: the only ‘peace’ that could be gained from the Republic stealing Imperial secrets would be the destruction of the Empire. That was clearly unacceptable… though the fact that the Jedi Grand Master considered otherwise was very telling. Even though he didn’t sense any hatred in her, there was still… something about her that bothered him.

It wasn’t an emotion.

She had clearly repressed all of those.

But he was definitely sensing _something._ He just couldn’t quite figure out what it was.

“The General can speak for himself – but I believe he does work for peace,” Shan said calmly. “Incidents like this are happening across the galaxy, but only because we let them. Leave the _Brentaal Star_ to me. If you don’t, then may the Force be with you – because the men and women aboard that ship can hold you off until we arrive. And you will be defeated.”

And then Zavahier figured out what he was sensing. It wasn’t hatred. It wasn’t fear. It was something far more complicated – and more horrible – than any passion embraced by the Sith. Zavahier found himself appreciating for the very first time that the Jedi didn’t want to destroy the Sith because they _hated_ them. That would have required feeling _something_. Instead, there was this cold, emotionless detachment that reminded Zavahier quite powerfully of the way his former owner had killed any slave too weak to work. Shan expected to have to kill Zavahier, not because she hated him, but because she thought it was necessary to do so.

_That_ was what the Jedi thought they were doing!

_Pest control_.

It was cold. Calculated. Reflective. Completely lacking in the relatable hatred that had been behind everything else Zavahier had experienced in his life; such as the abuse from his owner and Harkun’s attempts to kill him. Zavahier may have despised both Rawste and Harkun, but their feelings had at least been understandable on some level: they had seen slaves – even Force-sensitive ones – as being worthy of nothing but contempt. Zavahier could understand that even if he vehemently disagreed. It was _h__uman_. Passion, no matter what form it took, was something he knew how to deal with. How to use. How to manipulate. He could _respect_ the emotions of others, even if he knew they were wrong.

But Satele Shan’s lack of emotion, the way she seemed to perceive him as nothing more than a rabid animal that needed to be put down before it hurt too many people, was somehow so much _worse_ than Rawste and Harkun’s loathing. It took a special kind of mind, Zavahier thought, to kill not for passion or in defence of something one cared about, but from a cold, emotionless belief that a person needed to die. Feeling himself somewhat… dehumanised by Shan’s lack of hatred, Zavahier suppressed the shiver that tried to run up his spine.

That was when Zavahier decided wanted to kill her. To kill every Jedi. He’d wanted it before now, of course, but never like _this_. The Jedi weren’t just a challenge to test himself against. Nor were they just a threat to the Empire. They were a threat to anything that didn’t see the universe the same way they did. The Jedi’s perception of ‘peace’ left no room for alternate philosophies. It was impossible to have a sensible conversation with someone who repressed all their emotions, and who viewed the Empire only as something to be calmly and passionlessly destroyed out of some misguided idea that the galaxy was somehow a better place without the very conflicts that drove people to improve themselves and grow stronger.

None of Zavahier’s training had prepared him for this. The true horror of everything the Jedi represented couldn’t be _taught_. It had to be seen. It had to be learned through experience. And now Zavahier saw it, now he realised exactly what the Republic truly was, he understood precisely why it needed to be completely and utterly destroyed.

Starting with the General, and everyone on board the _Brentaal Star_.

No power in this entire _galaxy_ was going to stop him.

Not the Grand Master Jedi, not the crew of the _Brentaal Star_.

Not anybody.

“You’re deluding yourself, Jedi. The ship is already mine,” Zavahier said darkly, with all the confidence that came from drawing strength from the most powerful hatred he’d ever felt. “I considered giving you the choice of handing over the General to save the lives of everyone else on board that ship. But I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to kill them all. Every. Last. One.”

Satele Shan seemed unworried by his threats; she just kept looking at him in that calm, emotionless way. “You’ve made yourself clear. But I suggest you prepare to face a Jedi – and you may want to consider what that means.”

“It means I get to kill a Jedi,” Zavahier replied. He’d been hoping there was a Jedi on board the _Brentaal Star_, and Shan had just confirmed it for him. And he wanted her to know that when the Jedi died, it was by_ his _hand.

Satele Shan ended the transmission, leaving the bridge in silence; Zavahier’s conversation with her, and the resulting promise to murder everyone on board the _Brentaal Star_, had only increased the amount of fear that permeated the _Black Talon_’s bridge crew.

But it was only a few moments before Ensign Hetter broke the silence, continuing to do his duty despite how frightened he was. “Entering fighter range. The _Brentaal Star_ is launching its first squadron.”

“Alright. Alright,” Sylas said, a little uncertainly, hesitating as she considered the options. “We’re close enough to fly in and send a raiding party. I assume you’re going?”

Zavahier gave the Lieutenant a small smile. “Of course. I made that Jedi a promise, and I’m going to keep it.”

“Before you go, you should know something,” Sylas said cautiously. “Most of the marines will back you up, but we had to execute a few for refusing to fight.”

“They were terrified, after what happened to the Captain. They panicked,” Brukarra added.

“They’re dead now, anyway,” Sylas said, moving on briskly.

“We did retrieve their equipment,” Hetter interrupted. He still looked absolutely terrified, and flinched when Zavahier turned to look at him. “It’s yours. We’re doing our best to serve you, I swear.”

Zavahier doubted that equipment used by marines would be of much use to him; neither blasters nor heavy armour were his style. It was an offering made through fear rather than practicality, gifts for what Hetter – and the rest of the crew – perceived as an unstoppable force of nature. So Zavahier thought it might be appropriate to let the crew know that it wasn’t _them_ he intended to harm. The captain had defied him, and paid for it with his life, but the rest of the crew had, so far, been suitably obedient... if a little too fawning. “You’ve done well – so far. Continue, and all will end well,” he told Ensign Hetter.

It didn’t seem to help. The young man – in fact perhaps several years older than Zavahier – just shrunk back even further.

“Ignore him,” Sylas said quickly. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t trouble you in future. Your raid will have to be quick. We don’t have the manpower or firepower to survive for long. Just find the General, and then get out.”

NR-02 also seemed wary of the tense situation on the bridge, and so he addressed Zavahier, as well as Khem, Mezzeni and Kaliyo. “I advise that you proceed to the shuttle bay. The flight to the _Brentaal Star_ may be hazardous – but Grand Moff Kilran has complete faith in your abilities.”

“Alright, let’s go,” Zavahier said with a nod of agreement. It wasn’t simply that he was keen to get onto the Republic warship and cause some chaos. He was also more than sensitive enough to the emotions of those around him to know that his presence – and even his attempt at reassurance – was just frightening the _Black Talon_’s crew further. They would probably benefit from some time _not _being directly under a Sith’s supervision.

It was still rather gratifying to know how terrifying he was, though. That thought filled him with confidence as he left the bridge, heading towards the shuttle bay. There was something quite thrilling about knowing that other people feared him; it meant they would never dare to treat him with disrespect.


	7. The Brentaal Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier assaults the Brentaal Star.

The short shuttle journey from the _Black Talon_ to the _Brentaal Star_ was every bit as hazardous as NR-02 had predicted; fighter squadrons from both ships were launched, with the Imperial fighters providing cover fire for the shuttle. That didn’t stop the Republic fighters from attempting to destroy the shuttle while it was en route, and the _Brentaal Star_’s fighters substantially outnumbered those from the _Black Talon_. But the combination of Mezzeni’s superb piloting skills and the protection of the fighters that escorted the shuttle brought them to a safe landing inside the _Brentaal Star_’s shuttle bay.

Zavahier disembarked from the shuttle first, his lightsabre in his hand and sparks of lightning ready at his fingertips. Common sense alone would have told him to expect resistance from the _Brentaal Star_’s crew, and the shuttle’s sensors – as well as his own senses – confirmed that several groups of soldiers had rushed into the shuttle bay to meet them. And Zavahier was eager to take the battle to them, despite Mezzeni’s recommendation that they proceed with caution. She might be content to sit behind cover and take out the soldiers one by one, but Zavahier lacked the patience for that.

As soon as the soldiers saw him, they opened fire. But Zavahier was ready for them; their blaster bolts were deflected with swift movements of his lightsabre, and a ball of lightning was sent towards them. It detonated in a flash of purple light, immobilising four soldiers in a swirling whirlwind of lightning and telekinetic energy. Those around the edges managed to avoid the whirlwind, but with all their attention on Zavahier, they failed to notice Mezzeni slowly and carefully taking aim.

Three quick, precise shots, and three soldiers fell to the floor. And by then, Khem and Shâsot were among them, tearing through their armour as if it were paper, and Kaliyo showered the soldiers in a rain of blaster fire, much less accurate than Mezzeni’s shots, but making up for it in sheer volume. Zavahier stayed back, sending bolts of lightning at the soldiers whenever he had an opening. But he held back on using any magic; now he knew he would be facing a Jedi, he was saving his strength for that confrontation, and Sith sorcery was rather draining. If it felt wrong to let his companions take the lead against regular soldiers, it would be completely impossible for him to allow them to fight the Jedi. That would be _his_ battle.

It wasn’t long before all the soldiers had been killed, and Mezzeni said, “Your recklessness aside, apparently the mere presence of a Sith attracts all the attention. It’s nice to be able to line up clean shots without worrying about whether the enemy will even notice I’m there.”

“Like shooting fish in a barrel,” Kaliyo agreed. “Not that I appreciate being upstaged so easily.”

“There’s plenty more soldiers to kill,” Zavahier said; already he was searching the shuttle bay for any more threats, as well as taking in everything else he could see. The interior of the Republic warship was overwhelmingly _brown_, a kind of warm golden colour that would have seemed more appropriate in a cantina or luxury yacht. Zavahier much preferred the cool grey of the _Black Talon_. Making a ship _brown_ just seemed wholly unprofessional. But then, he really shouldn’t have been surprised; the _Brentaal Star _was hideous on the outside, so naturally it would be hideous on the inside too.

Zavahier led the way through the shuttle bay and into the corridor beyond, pressing onwards through the ship. He had only a vague idea of where he was going, and was at this point mostly relying on his instincts. The crew of the _Brentaal Star_ would be doing one of two things at this point: trying to stop the boarding party going anywhere, and trying to conceal the General. That meant the General would likely be heading towards the rear of the ship, as far away from the shuttle bay as possible.

It also meant ambushes. A lot of them. Zavahier and his companions came upon more groups of Republic troops, and even some mere technicians who joined in with the defence of the ship more through necessity than because they were any good in a fight. They were easily defeated, killed with single shots from Mezzeni or a quick bolt of lightning from Zavahier’s fingertips. Even the soldiers didn’t offer much of a challenge.

There was only one conclusion Zavahier could draw from this: the _Brentaal Star_ had not been expecting to be attacked, and had therefore crewed it with less competent soldiers.

Or Republic soldiers just weren’t as capable as Imperial ones?

That was actually just as plausible. The Republic had superior numbers, but that also meant many soldiers would be mediocre at best, while the Empire valued strength above all else. Weak soldiers perished to make room for the strong.

Killing the Republic soldiers was fun, certainly, but without a real challenge, Zavahier found it less than satisfying. That Jedi, wherever he or she was, had better be a tougher fight, or he was going to be very disappointed. And if _all_ the Republic was like this, then it wouldn’t be long before it was completely destroyed.

Zavahier’s group located an elevator and used it go down to the transport deck. It didn’t seem like the obvious choice, but after a few moments of reaching out with his senses, he located a nearby ripple in the Force, the presence of another Force-user. Whether or not the Jedi was guarding the General, Zavahier was determined to seek them out and kill them… but it also seemed a safe assumption that the Jedi would be in close proximity to his target. He would kill two Mynocks with one stone. Or one bolt of lightning, really.

There were more Republic soldiers and personnel on the next deck, as well as a small number of battle droids, which were destroyed using the same strategy that had worked so well against the ones that had boarded the _Black Talon_. Then another room guarded by soldiers. Then a corridor of more soldiers. Soldiers. Droids. More soldiers. More droids. All easily dispatched.

By the time Zavahier reached what appeared to be some kind of communications room, he was getting annoyed with the Republic for being so weak.

“Is this the Republic’s whole strategy?” Zavahier asked irritably as he delivered a slow and painful death to the communications officer. “Just send wave after wave of men and droids at us in the hopes that we’ll get _bored_ enough to give up and go home?”

The man just screamed, writhing in pain as he struggled against the lighting ravaging his body. With a final painful jolt, the man fell to the floor, and Zavahier stepped over him, feeling irritated that the man had died so quickly. “Not that I don’t have enough lightning to kill everyone on this ship, but these soldiers are _dull_,” he continued.

“Oh yeah, just _loving_ the whole ‘crazy Sith’ vibe,” Kaliyo remarked.

Ignoring them both, Mezzeni went to the holoterminal and began entering commands into the console. “The _Black Talon_ is trying to contact us,” she said by way of an explanation. “The connection is now secure.”

A small hologram of NR-02 appeared in the air above the holoterminal. “This is protocol unit NR-02. I hope you are receiving this message clearly, and that your flight was free of incident. Please hold for Ensign Brukarra,” the droid said.

The hologram flickered for a moment, and then NR-02 disappeared, to be replaced with a hologram of Brukarra. “The marines are on their way to the _Brentaal Star_. They’ll follow you through the ship and hold each junction you secure. Try not to take too long – we’re not a military ship. What you have is all you’re getting,” she informed them.

“I don’t need an army. If what I’ve seen so far is any indication, I can handle this all by myself,” Zavahier said impatiently.

“Yes, but—” Brukarra began, only to cut herself off, deciding better than to contradict a Sith. “I—I understand.”

The Ensign transferred the communication back to NR-02, and the droid said, “I’ve been scanning the _Brentaal Star_’s communications, and security forces appear to be moving to protect the escape pods. It’s extremely likely that the crew is attempting to evacuate the General. You must retrieve or eliminate him before he escapes.”

“Thanks for stating the obvious. I don’t need a droid telling me how to do things,” Zavahier said, inclined to be irritable with _anybody_ who thought he needed step by step instructions. All he needed to know was that the General was trying to reach the escape pods. Everything else he could figure out for himself.

“Understood,” NR-02 said. “I’m simply looking after Grand Moff Kilran’s interests.”

“We’ll have the General soon enough. This crew is pathetic,” Zavahier said.

“Excellent news. I’ll be in contact if the situation changes. Proceed to assault all defence points between you and the target,” NR-02 said, before terminating the communication.

Knowing now that they needed to move through the ship more swiftly if they hoped to reach the General before he evacuated in an escape pod, Zavahier led the way out of the communications room and down another corridor which headed towards the rear of the ship. His senses told him the Jedi couldn’t be too much further… and the General as well.

The group turned a corner, and found the doorway ahead of them blocked by a…

“What is _that_ supposed to be?” Zavahier asked, staring at the bizarre alien in a mixture of curiosity and revulsion. While it was broadly humanoid in shape, it had a large, bulbous head with a wide, fleshy mouth and side-facing protruding eyes; it had to tilt its head sideways just to look back at him, and both its hands and feet were webbed fins. Its skin was green with dark stripes, and it was wearing heavy white and orange armour. It smelled quite strongly of salt and fish. And it was flanked by several Republic troopers who didn’t seem to mind the smell at all.

“You’re speaking to Special Forces Commander Ghulil, honoured hero of the Dac Military Academy, meat. Show some respect,” the creature snapped back at him in a gravelly voice.

Zavahier just stared at it for several moments, taking in both its demand for respect and the fact that really, if he thought about it, strapping a suit of armour onto a ghastly green fish-thing was actually quite ridiculous. Suddenly the alien looked more comical than anything else, and Zavahier started to laugh. And when he saw both Khem and Mezzeni looking at him with mild disapproval, he smiled and said, “It wants us to respect it! The big ugly fish thinks it deserves respect!”

Mezzeni and Khem still didn’t look at all amused, but Kaliyo quickly stifled a small laugh. The alien didn’t seem to appreciate Zavahier’s sense of humour either, and it glared at him with one huge black eye. Well, Zavahier assumed it was a glare; it was hard to read the alien’s face at all, but the emotions underneath seemed to be universal, for he could sense its anger and indignation even if he couldn’t read it on its face.

“He’s a Mon Calamari,” Mezzeni said with a sigh, as if telling him the alien’s species was going to make the situation any less hilarious. “Could you _be_ any more of an embarrassment to the Empire?”

“I know what I’m doing!” Zavahier protested, because although his laughter hadn’t been intentional – the alien really did look _that_ ridiculous – he now realised that making fun of the thing was a useful strategy. If it was angry, it would make mistakes.

Mezzeni sighed again, and then turned her attention to Ghulil, raising her voice to speak so it could hear. “The Sith’s incredible diplomatic skills aside, we’re going through that door one way or another.”

“Ha! Part of me was hoping you’d try to fight!” Ghulil replied, before drawing its weapon, a long vibroblade. It charged towards Zavahier and cried, “For the Republic!”

Zavahier already knew how he wanted to handle a fight with this Mon Calamari creature. He’d spotted its most obvious weakness the moment their eyes had met: with both its eyes pointing out the sides of its head, there had to be a very large blind spot directly in front of it. So he stepped sideways, positioning himself directly in front of the Mon Calamari. Ghulil turned its head to focus on him again, and Zavahier shifted once more, bouncing lightly in front of it to keep himself within its blind spot.

He also chose not to activate his lightsabre, knowing that the characteristic hum of the blade would give away his position. If Ghulil couldn’t see him and couldn’t hear him, then it couldn’t kill him. He erected a Force barrier around himself to protect him from the alien’s vibroblade, and sent a quick, sharp shock right into Ghulil’s face.

“Argh! Hold still, damned Sith!” the Mon Calamari growled at him, swinging its vibroblade wildly through the air directly in front of it, perhaps hoping to strike Zavahier through sheer luck.

But the Force was more powerful than luck. Zavahier ducked beneath the vibroblade, and hit the Mon Calamari with another spark of lightning. Staying in the alien’s blind spot was remarkably easy, in part due to his own quick reflexes, but also because all that heavy armour slowed Ghulil down… and Zavahier doubted those fins allowed it to be particularly agile on land anyway.

With all his attention focused on Ghulil, it wasn’t easy to keep track of everything else going on around him. But he could hear Mezzeni and Kaliyo exchanging fire with the other soldiers, and the loud screams of a man being mauled by Shâsot. And in the corner of his eye Zavahier could make out Khem circling him and Ghulil, looking for an opportunity to strike, but with the Mon Calamari’s side-facing eyes, flanking him was difficult. Not that it mattered; Zavahier didn’t need Khem’s help.

Ghulil swung his vibroblade again, and Zavahier dodged out of the way again. Then one of the other soldiers realised what Zavahier was doing, and began calling out instructions to the Mon Calamari – “Left! Right! Right again!” – alerting him to every move Zavahier made while weaving around in Ghulil’s blind spot.

Now dodging the Mon Calamari’s attacks was a lot harder. Zavahier couldn’t pay attention to anything else going on around him – and nor could he call out to his own companions without giving Ghulil an even clearer idea of his position. Instead he focused wholly on keeping away from the vibroblade, drawing on the Force to aid him; he made himself faster, more agile… and his perception of the universe around him slowed. The next swing of Ghulil’s weapon came towards him in slow motion, and he easily sidestepped it.

Then he reached out, faster than Ghulil could react to, and delivered a little spark of lightning to the vibroblade’s energy cell.

And watched in delight as it exploded, obliterating Ghulil’s flipper in the process. A vibroblade’s tendency to explode when struck with lightning had been an accidental discovery early in Zavahier’s training, and he thought it would _never _get old. The Mon Calamari screamed and clutched at its arm. Salty blood spattered in all directions. And with Ghulil now thoroughly distracted by this horrific injury, Zavahier was able to envelop it in purple lightning streaming from both hands.

“Die, Republic filth!” Zavahier snarled at the Mon Calamari, very much enjoying the alien’s screams of agony, the way it slowly sank to the floor, writhing in pain. He took his time ending Ghulil’s life, revelling in the pain and suffering he was inflicting on his enemy, and barely noticing anything else that was happening around him. Nothing else mattered but this moment; his strength and power, his complete dominance over this… this vermin, and the pleas for mercy that came between each scream. The crackling sound of electricity filled Zavahier’s ears, drowning out everything else.

Only when his protective bubble of Force energy finally collapsed and a blaster bolt hit him in the shoulder did the rest of reality begin to filter through his senses again. He barely felt the pain, but the force of the impact against his armour was enough to distract him, and his lightning dissipated with a deafening _crack_. Zavahier snapped his attention to the source of the bolt that hit his shoulder: the other soldiers had started shooting at him the moment he’d disabled Ghulil.

He reached out with his hand, grabbing hold of the first soldier through the Force and hurling him viciously against the wall. Khem charged at the second soldier and easily cut him down. The others were quickly dispatched by Mezzeni and Kaliyo’s blaster fire.

When Zavahier turned back to Ghulil, he saw that the Mon Calamari was lying dead at his feet, its body still smoking from the burns inflicted by his lightning. It smelled like fried fish, and the hand that had wielded the vibroblade was little more than a charred stump.

Zavahier strode past the dead Mon Calamari, intensely aware of the emotional response his actions had provoked. Khem approved of his display of power; Kaliyo was faintly impressed, but also now rather wary of him. And Mezzeni… she accepted the need to kill all the Republic personnel that stood in their way, but was also faintly revolted by how much he’d clearly enjoyed torturing Ghulil. She also disapproved of the fact that he’d been so absorbed in inflicting pain that he hadn’t even noticed when the other soldiers had started shooting at him. But she said nothing, and simply followed him in silence. And he thought he knew why: whatever she thought of him personally, he was Sith and she wasn’t… and now wasn’t the time for arguments.

After all, they had a General to find.

And a Jedi to kill.


	8. Savagery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier battles his first Jedi.

Still following his senses, that awareness of the presence of another Force-user, Zavahier led the way down more corridors. There were more soldiers and members of the crew who sought to stop them; all were easily defeated. But there was no time to stop and savour the carnage. Zavahier’s attention was now focused wholly on the Jedi, and he projected his hatred and malevolence through the ship, creating an aura of darkness that he hoped would unnerve the Jedi enough to weaken them.

It conveniently served to demoralise the other Republic personnel they encountered, too. They seemed to lose all their confidence the moment they laid eyes on him. Their fear made them poor fighters, and those that chose to flee instead of facing him were shot in the back, either by Zavahier’s lighting, or Mezzeni and Kaliyo’s blasters.

Eventually they reached the rear of the ship, only to find their way blocked by a sealed door; when they approached it, it should have slid open, but instead it shuddered, the metal groaning as the automatic opening mechanism struggled against whatever had sealed it closed. Mezzeni attempted to override the door mechanisms through the nearby control console, but the door remained in place.

“We’re going to need to blast through it,” she said, and began searching through her pack for explosives.

But Zavahier responded with a shake of his head. He was staring at the door, but his eyes didn’t really see it; he was focused on what he could sense from the other side. “The Jedi is holding it closed with the Force,” he said after a few moments. “But I think I can…”

He trailed off there, and bowed his head and closed his eyes, focusing on the power within himself. Electricity crackled around him, and then he sent a massive blast of lightning and telekinetic power at the door, pushing against and overwhelming not just the metal, but the Jedi’s own strength holding it closed. With an impressively loud _bang_, the door was blasted open. Pieces of torn metal were pushed back, slamming into and crushing a pair of soldiers that had apparently been approaching from the other side.

Zavahier walked through the smoking remains of the door and into the large hangar beyond. He caught the end of the conversation between the Jedi and a fat old man who was _probably_ the General.

“I will face my destiny,” the Jedi said. “Go now, my friend.”

The old man began limping towards the far end of the hangar, where several soldiers were waiting. The Jedi – a red Twi’lek girl around Zavahier’s age – turned away from the General and regarded Zavahier.

“The Jedi’s _mine_. The rest of you, stay out of this,” Zavahier said in a low voice to his companions. He didn’t want Khem, Mezzeni, Kaliyo or Shâsot to interfere with this fight: killing the Jedi was _his_ duty. Well, more of a privilege, really. As he walked towards the Jedi, she moved to stand in front of him, blocking his access to the General. As if he had any intention of simply going around her!

Khem took hold of Shâsot’s collar to ensure that the Tuk’ata didn’t involve himself in the fight. Shâsot growled at Khem, trying to pull himself loose of the Dashade’s hold. Khem gave him a quick smack on the nose, and said, in a warning tone, “Behave, little beast. This fight is for your master.”

“Halt where you are,” the Jedi said as she drew and ignited her lightsabre, which she raised in front of her in what she probably thought was a threatening manner, holding onto the hilt with both hands. “I am Yadira Ban, Padawan of the Jedi Order. I was sent to protect the General, and you will not pass.”

Zavahier followed suit, activating his own lightsabre… but holding it only in his left hand by his side, a more relaxed position than the Jedi’s. Yet he paced back and forth in front of her, poised for the battle he knew was coming. Where she was stiff and formal, his movements were smooth. Fluid. In tune with his own passions rather than fighting against them. But he kept his eyes on her, and her bright purple eyes followed his every movement. After a moment, Zavahier smiled at her, not to express any sense of friendliness or kinship, but purely out of amusement. “Your master sent you? Really. My first teacher tried to kill me, too,” he said.

This didn’t quite have the effect he’d been looking for, however. Ban stiffened slightly, but didn’t back down. “Then it’s true. You Sith are a mockery of everything the Jedi believe in,” she said firmly.

“Well, isn’t _that_ humble, thinking we exist just to mock you?” Zavahier replied, though beneath the sarcasm, he actually found the Jedi’s mindset to be somewhat unnerving. There was some personal affront there, as if she found his existence offensive to her beliefs. This Yadira Ban was not as calm as Satele Shan; she was younger, and less practiced at repressing her emotions. Perhaps Zavahier could use that. “You should know: playing with you Jedi is just a fun hobby. It’s not why I’m here. Hand over the General, and you can live. Your ship will survive.”

“I cannot accept that. A Jedi does not surrender the innocent into the hands of evil,” the Jedi replied. “But I intend to drive you back – metre by metre, if need be. Just as the Republic pushed the Sith Empire into the dark of the galaxy.”

Zavahier was – however briefly – taken aback by the realisation that Yadira Ban thought _he_ was the evil one here. It simply didn’t occur to the Jedi that she might be on the wrong side; that protecting a traitor was an evil act, and those stolen secrets, if not recovered, would lead to trillions of Imperial deaths. It was perhaps _because_ she considered him to be the evil one that she wouldn’t consider the morality of her own actions. By assuming that he was evil simply because he was Sith, she didn’t have to think about whether helping the General destroy the Empire was really the right thing to do.

But there was more truth in Ban’s words than even she knew. She didn’t understand the true nature of what she was saying, even though it was proof, beyond any doubt, that the Jedi were truly evil. They would never rest until the Empire was destroyed. That was why Ban had been sent to protect the General, to ensure the information he’d stolen could be used in the Republic’s crusade. What the Jedi didn’t understand was that the more they tried to destroy the Empire, the stronger it became; just as Zavahier’s trials at the Academy, the frequent brushes with death, had prepared him for this battle.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, the Empire is still here – and we’ll destroy you,” Zavahier said, knowing beyond any doubt that he was on the right side, and that he would be victorious.

“You cannot destroy us – no more than a shadow can destroy he who casts it,” the Jedi replied. It sounded like some silly truism that she’d heard someone else say and was now parroting, without any understanding of what she was actually saying.

“You’re an idiot. And a hypocrite,” Zavahier said contemptuously. “A shadow needs someone to cast it. The Empire doesn’t need the Republic. We survived your last attempt at genocide, and we’ll survive this one too. We will exist long after you’ve been ground into dust. You don’t scare me, Jedi.”

“I don’t need to scare you, only defeat you,” Yadira Ban replied, pointing her lightsabre at him in what she clearly thought was an appropriately dramatic way. “And that, I can do.”

Neither of them were going to back down, and… well, Zavahier really wasn’t disappointed. He’d sought to unsettle the Jedi by talking to her, and even offering to let her live if she allowed him to take the General, but he’d never had any intention of following through with that promise. Her fate had been sealed the moment he’d stepped on board the _Brentaal Star_… and he was eager to finally test his strength against a Jedi.

Almost before she had even finished speaking, Zavahier unleashed his first attack on Yadira Ban. While she’d been talking about his inevitable defeat, he had been silently drawing on his darkest emotions, and with the words, “_Degtiutvenak,_” and a gesture, a pulse of dark energy left his hand and entered the Jedi’s body, infecting her with a Force affliction that would poison her blood and dull her mind. He followed the spell with a barrage of lightning, which she deflected with her lightsabre.

Then Yadira Ban leaped through the air towards him, making an impossible leap of nearly thirty metres, swiping at him with her lightsabre as she dropped down on him from above. He parried the attack, his red blade meeting her green one; there were bright sparks where the two blades connected, and they seemed to ‘stick’ to each other. Zavahier pushed forward, attempting to overpower the Jedi, and she was forced to back away. Whether it was because she wasn’t prepared for Zavahier’s left-handed fighting style, or because the artificial crystals in his lightsabre were innately stronger than the natural ones in hers was hard to say. Perhaps a combination of both.

Zavahier pressed his advantage, closing the gap between them and attempting to slash her from shoulder to hip. His lightsabre sparked as it struck the Jedi’s armoured robes, but failed to cut through them. It was probably infused with cortosis, much like his own robes; and indeed when Ban retaliated and scored a hit with her lightsabre, the blade simply glanced off his shoulder.

“Well, this could take a while,” Zavahier remarked drily, and instead of trying to cut her again, he sprang off to the side, evading her next blow, which was swung with a lot more force. She wanted to get through his armour by hitting harder. And he wasn’t going to stand still for that. Then he twisted around, blocking the next slash; again their blades met, and Zavahier and Ban pushed at each other’s lightsabres.

The Jedi was more successful with her two-handed wielding of her lightsabre. She was able to put strength into her push that Zavahier wasn’t, despite the Force affliction running through her blood; it slowed her down and sapped some of her strength, but she was pushing through it. So when Zavahier felt her lightsabre beginning to press closer to him, he pulled his weapon back, then ducked, and rolled out of the way. Then, as the Jedi pursued him, ready to bring her lightsabre down at his head, he pushed her with the Force, hurling her backwards.

Yadira Ban regained her feet quickly and charged at him again. Zavahier leaped to his feet, and instead of trying to parry her lightsabre, he ducked underneath it and darted past her, slashing her across the back. She grunted in pain, but once again her armour took the bulk of his attack, protecting her from any real harm. She turned around to face him, raising her lightsabre to block his next attack.

Zavahier had never been in a fight like this. It was frightening, yes, but also exhilarating. This Jedi didn’t fight like a Sith did. She wasn’t pressing every attack in a purely aggressive way, but was instead trying to find a way around his defences. She was calm, coldly emotionless, and she was more guarded in her attacks; they were easier to defend against, but harder to get past. She wasn’t leaving the kind of openings that an overconfident Sith would. She was, instead, defending herself well and waiting for _him _to make a mistake. Yadira Ban’s caution was confronting him with the most basic of Sith drives: to adapt, to evolve, to rise to the challenge and prove his strength.

Increasing aggression wasn’t the way forward. She would be expecting that. Instead he needed to do something she _wouldn’t_ anticipate.

And he knew _exactly_ what weakness he needed to exploit.

Zavahier parried and blocked several more slashes, backing away as he did so; he made a show of being overwhelmed by the Jedi’s stronger attacks. He concealed his confidence behind a rising wall of fear, knowing Ban would sense his emotions. He struck at her with a bolt of lightning, deliberately leaving an opening for her to attack him. And when she took the invitation, swinging her lightsabre at him with both hands, he dodged sideways, avoiding serious harm… but he also let himself fall heavily to the floor. He deliberately dropped his lightsabre.

Then he rolled onto his back, and raised his hand just as the Jedi was about to slash him with her lightsabre. “Wait! Stop,” he said, sending out a wave of fear that the Jedi couldn’t fail to sense. “I surrender.”

And this was where the Force affliction made all the difference. The Jedi’s dulled mind didn’t question how easily she had knocked him to the floor, nor how readily he surrendered to her. Compassion was a known Jedi weakness, one that Zavahier had chosen to exploit, and Yadira Ban lowered her lightsabre. “Will you submit yourself to the Jedi Council for justice?” she asked.

“Yes. Just don’t kill me,” Zavahier said, feeling somewhat repulsed by his own pleas for mercy, even though he knew it was an act. He hated to even _pretend_ to be weak. But he stayed on the floor, maintaining that submissive, defensive posture.

“Perhaps you _can_ be redeemed,” the Jedi said in an obnoxiously self-righteous tone of voice. Finally, she deactivated her lightsabre.

And in that moment, Zavahier struck, sending a massive surge of lightning through both his hands, right into Yadira Ban’s chest. The force of the lightning threw her back, away from Zavahier, and she landed heavily on the floor several metres away. Her lightsabre was thrown out of her hand. Zavahier didn’t get up – doing so would have required the use of his hands – but instead kept a stream of purple lightning running from his fingertips to the Jedi’s body, ravaging her with all the pain and suffering he could inflict.

“You Jedi are all idiots,” he snarled at her, increasing the intensity of his lightning, drawing on the full extent of his power. All his hatred of the Jedi, all his anger, all his fear, every emotion he had was channelled into the lightning that wracked Yadira Ban’s body. The raw power of it burned his fingers, though he didn’t feel it. All he felt was rage and hate and terror. “You think I’d ever surrender to _you_? I am Sith!”

Now, at last, he climbed to his feet, sending all his lightning through one hand while using the other to help him get up. Then he stalked forward and began his assault anew. The Twi’lek screamed louder and louder as he tore into her with all the power he could bring to bear. He’d been saving his strength for this, and he didn’t care if he was exhausted afterwards. All the lightning he could summon was sent into the Jedi. And he barely even noticed when she stopped screaming, when his lightning was scorching a dead body, not a live Jedi. There was nothing to stop him. Nothing to hold him back.

He was Sith!

He was death incarnate!

He was an unstoppable storm of lightning and darkness!

The Republic would burn!

And every Jedi in the galaxy would die by his hand!

Zavahier ceased his attack on Yadira Ban only when exhaustion forced him to do so. When he had used so much lightning that drawing on yet more power felt like a struggle. So he let the final tendrils of bright purple electricity dissipate into the air around him with a small _crack_, and then stepped back from the Jedi, panting from the exertion and physically exhausted… but nevertheless elated. There wasn’t a lot left of the Jedi. Her robes and armour were burned and scorched, and her body was charred almost beyond recognition. The air was filled with the stench of burning flesh and clothes, and there was still some smoke rising from Yadira Ban’s corpse. The air around Zavahier still crackled with electricity.

It was official: nothing in the whole galaxy felt as good as killing a Jedi.

He couldn’t help but smile, feeling thoroughly pleased with himself, not just for winning, but for manipulating the Jedi’s desire to show compassion for a seemingly beaten foe. It had been merely a theory at the Academy, something he had tried out while sparring with one of the weaker acolytes and had thought might one day be useful against a Jedi, but he hadn’t been completely sure such a strategy would actually _work_. Not until now. Here was proof that it was a good strategy to use, at least against younger Jedi who were less adept at recognising deception.

Zavahier turned away from the dead Jedi and went to retrieve his dropped lightsabre, feeling a tingling sensation in his hands as he did so. Then, on a whim, he retrieved Yadira Ban’s lightsabre as well, feeling it made an excellent trophy… and perhaps he would dismantle it, just to learn something about lightsabre construction in case he ever wanted to modify his own. Or if he ever needed to build a new one.

Shâsot trotted over to Yadira Ban’s body and began to devour it. Zavahier watched him for a few moments, thinking of Seh-run back on Korriban; would Shâsot also become more powerful from eating the remains of Force-users? It was certainly worth considering. And there would certainly be more such opponents in the future, both Jedi and Sith.

And then, finally, Zavahier turned towards his companions, who had all wisely followed his wishes and stayed out of his fight with the Jedi.

They weren’t smiling.

In all fairness, Khem probably _couldn’t_ smile. And from him Zavahier could at least sense some approval of his brutality and victory against the Jedi. Kaliyo was frowning, seeming torn between being impressed and disturbed. Mezzeni just looked completely appalled, and when she spoke, her voice dripped with revulsion. “What was that? What the hell is wrong with you?”

Zavahier’s immediate reaction was one of confusion, because he didn’t see anything inherently wrong with having killed a Jedi. Alone, in single combat, no less. Without their help. Nor did he see a problem with using the full extent of his power, or with enjoying his victory. But his confusion quickly gave way to anger: who were they to judge him? He was Sith! And he wasn’t going to let them ruin his enjoyment of this event. His first Jedi kill was something to savour. He wanted to remember this moment forever.

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” he snapped. “The Jedi needed to die, I killed her. Now come on, before the General escapes.”

He turned away from Mezzeni and Kaliyo, keeping his head high and refusing to be ashamed of his actions or his power, and turned his attention to the soldiers at the back of the hangar. He called Shâsot to him, and the Tuk’ata reluctantly left the Jedi’s body, moving to walk by Zavahier’s side. But he didn’t resist this time; perhaps his stomach was rather full from all the soldiers he’d eaten. A moment later Khem joined him, taking up a position on Zavahier’s other side. The Dashade almost looked as though he wanted to say something, but there was no time: the soldiers raised their blasters and opened fire.

Compared to the Jedi, they were weak and pathetic. But Zavahier was thoroughly drained, and so instead of retaliating with lightning, he ignited his lightsabre and used it to deflect the bolts. But his hands were starting to hurt, and what had started as a tingling feeling was quickly becoming a burning pain; even holding his lightsabre was difficult. So he sought only to defend himself… while Khem and Shâsot charged forward to attack the soldiers head on. After a few moments, Mezzeni and Kaliyo joined in, albeit somewhat reluctantly.

When the soldiers were downed, Kaliyo looked at Zavahier and smirked. “Shouldn’t have tired yourself out, should you?” she remarked, unaware of the true reason why Zavahier hadn’t aggressively attacked the soldiers.

“Shut up. I can still cut you in half with my lightsabre,” he replied irritably as he deactivated his lightsabre and stepped past the dead soldiers. He knew he _could_ have killed them himself if he’d really needed to, either by cutting them down with his weapon or summoning a few small sparks. It just hadn’t been necessary.

And it was only fair to let his companions kill a few people after he’d claimed the Jedi for himself, wasn’t it?

And his hands _hurt_.

The General was standing outside the escape pod. He was clutching his side and appeared to be quite badly injured, presumably wounded by the _Black Talon_’s attack on the _Brentaal Star_. But more than that, he radiated sadness and despair. He had given up. Though the escape pod was barely a few metres away, he didn’t try to reach it, but instead faced the group that approached him. As Zavahier got closer, his hand resting on the hilt of his lightsabre, the General said, “You can put aside your weapons. I won’t try to run. Besides, I doubt I’d make it to an escape pod without my intestines spilling out.”

“I could kill you,” Zavahier offered, half in jest. There was nothing like trying to hold a conversation while experiencing intense pain to make him irritable and bloodthirsty. “I don’t need you alive. I might spill your intestines myself.”

The General gave a small, defeated sigh. “I’m well aware of Imperial policy regarding my kind.”

“You’re the General, correct?” Zavahier asked. “Grand Moff Kilran sent me to find you.”

“Kilran did?” the General asked in faint surprise. “Of course. He would have the gall to send a transport to take on a warship – and succeed.”

Zavahier considered his victory to be more down to his own strength and determination rather than anything Kilran had done. But he also didn’t need the General to acknowledge that. This plan had succeeded because Kilran had been sensible enough to enlist a Sith, and anybody with any sense would be able to see that without Zavahier drawing attention to it. He especially didn’t need the General’s approval, given the man wouldn’t be leaving this place alive regardless of what was said.

“I was a General in the Imperial military service,” the General continued. “Did they tell you that when they sent you here? Did they even know?”

“You know, I thought the codename ‘the General’ was a bit of a clue,” Zavahier said. “I’d have been more surprised if you turned out to be a cantina dancer or something. It doesn’t change your fate, though.”

“No. I shouldn’t expect you’d care,” the General said. “But if you knew what I knew, you’d understand. If you’d heard what both sides are plotting, you wouldn’t be so eager to restart this war. They’re building doomsday weapons. Shields that envelop planets; missiles that darken suns. Republic and Empire are planning to raze worlds. Annihilate civilisations. It will be unlike anything the galaxy’s seen since the Great Hyperspace War. And it’s too late to stop it – the so-called ‘peace’ is already lost.”

That much had been clear to Zavahier for some time now, from the moment he’d started learning of the Empire’s history, initially taught to him by a tutor Zash had hired, and later through his own studies. It was nevertheless interesting to have it confirmed by an experienced military officer. And it begged an important question: “If that’s true, why defect to the Republic?”

“There’s no place for me in the Empire anymore. I thought my last act might be to even the odds – create a stalemate,” the General replied, before giving another despairing sigh. “It doesn’t seem to matter anymore.”

“No, it doesn’t. All you’ve done is betray the Empire and give the Republic the means to destroy us. You might have given up, but _I_ haven’t,” Zavahier said fiercely.

“Not yet. But you will. You won’t survive the next war. None of us will,” the General said. “You have me, then. Me, my stomach full of blood and my implant full of cybernetic secrets and stolen plans. What will you do?”

Zavahier took a moment to consider his options. He could take the General alive, and the man would be handed over for interrogation. But that would give him chance to spread his foolish belief that the Empire couldn’t defeat the Republic, sowing doubt in the hearts of other men. The General would only spread further disloyalty if he was allowed to live, and if one thing was clear to Zavahier, it was that the loyalty and obedience of the military was of utmost importance for his future plans.

So that was his decision. He knew what had to be done. “You’re no use to me alive.”

“So be it. We’re all as good as dead anyway,” the General replied.

Zavahier was aware of movement behind him, as a small group of marines from the _Black Talon_ approached; they had apparently followed him through the _Brentaal Star_, securing each junction as Brukarra had said they would. And now they had caught up with him. And Zavahier knew what that meant: he needed to put on a show of strength in his execution of the General, no matter how much physical pain it might cause him. The marines needed to see what happened to traitors, and there was no room for Zavahier to display any weakness. So it didn’t matter how exhausted he felt. He had to kill the defector himself, and he had to make it look impressive.

He found the strength within himself by tapping into the disgust he felt with the General’s weakness and willingness to admit defeat and betray the Empire. The man didn’t deserve to live. He was weak. He was pathetic. He was a traitor. And Zavahier was Sith. He held the power of life and death in his hands.

And _there_ was the power. Lightning leaped to his fingers with surprising ease given how much energy he’d already expended today, and he directed them into the General’s chest, striking at the man’s heart. Zavahier purposely avoided targeting the man’s cybernetic implants, for fear of damaging them. He channelled his lightning for several seconds, and the General screamed in pain, a sound that coincided with Zavahier’s feelings on the matter too. Even this small stream of lightning was making the burns on his hands worse, but he used the pain as a source of power, drawing enough strength from it to kill the General… and adamantly refusing to display any signs of being in pain himself. The bolt of lightning to the heart was a reasonably quick and efficient death, and the General dropped to the floor.

Zavahier crouched down to extract the man’s implants – a rather messy but surprisingly uncomplicated process when he didn’t have to be concerned about avoiding any damage to the General’s skull – and then retrieved a datapad of further information from the General’s pockets. He could, perhaps, have ordered someone else to do this for him… but he didn’t trust any of the people with him enough to leave the General’s stolen secrets in their hands. The implants and datapad were pocketed, and then Zavahier rose to his feet and turned to the people gathered nearby.

“Right. Mission accomplished. Let’s get out of here,” he said, making it a command to Khem, Mezzeni, Kaliyo and the _Black Talon_ marines. He led the way down the corridor towards the nearest elevator, keeping his back to the others as he didn’t want them to see just how much pain he was in. He kept his hands in his pockets, though the feel of the cloth against his raw, burned skin was exceptionally painful. It was better than letting anybody _see_ that he’d injured himself with his own lightning. And he was, perhaps, a little annoyed with himself for not noticing the damage he was doing to himself during his destruction of the Jedi.

It was still worth it. He knew that on a conscious level, and still felt the thrill of his victory. It was just tempered by a powerful desire for cool, soothing kolto.

The elevator took them up several of the _Brentaal Star_’s decks, and then Zavahier continued to led the way down the next corridor, heading forward through the ship towards the hangar they had initially landed in. He was starting to get a feel for the overall layout of the warship, something that would undoubtedly be useful in the future. And he moved swiftly, wanting to get back to the _Black Talon_ as quickly as possible. So when Mezzeni called out to him to wait a moment, his initial response was one of irritation.

“What?” Zavahier asked sharply.

“I think NR-02 is trying to contact us again,” Mezzeni replied from a nearby holoterminal that Zavahier had completely ignored as he walked past it. Mezzeni took a few moments to secure the connection, and then the hologram of NR-02 appeared above it.

“This is protocol unit NR-02. If you are receiving this message, I urge you to return to the _Black Talon_ as quickly as possible,” the droid said.

Although NR-02 spoke in the same neutral tone that all droids did, there was nevertheless _something_ about the communication that struck Zavahier as odd. Something was wrong. “Explain yourself. What’s going on?” he snapped.

“There has been an incident aboard the bridge. Your tactics have inspired—”

The droid was cut off mid-sentence, and in the background Zavahier heard Sylas shouting, “Idiots! You’ll get us damn well killed!”

Then the communication cut off completely. It was hard to say whether it was due to whatever was happening on the _Black Talon_, or if a surviving crew member of the _Brentaal Star_ had terminated the connection. Zavahier guessed the former was more likely.

“That didn’t sound good,” Mezzeni commented, speaking for everyone.

“Let’s hurry, then,” Zavahier agreed, moving off again at a brisk walk and simply expecting everyone else to follow and keep up. Khem and Shâsot were happy to stay by his side, but Zavahier anticipated all the others would trail some distance behind him. Mezzeni and Kaliyo were disgusted by him, and the marines were terrified of him, both of which were good reasons for them to maintain their distance.

They reached the hangar and broke into a run, sprinting towards the waiting transport shuttle. About half way across, a Republic fighter flew into the hangar at great speed – far too fast to land safely – and dived towards them in some kind of suicide run. With barely a moment to react, Zavahier stopped in his tracks and raised his hand to send a blast of telekinetic energy at it, altering its course just enough so that it ploughed into the wall and burst into flames rather than landing on any of the Imperial forces.

“Idiot Republic filth,” he snarled, expressing his disgust for such a pitiful last ditch attempt to stop him.

But the way to the transport shuttle was clear, and Zavahier ran towards it, now bringing up the rear. The marines all boarded, followed by Mezzeni, Kaliyo and Khem. Only then did Zavahier climb inside, grabbing Shâsot’s collar to haul the Tuk’ata inside the shuttle as well. And then, finally, he sat down in the nearest empty seat. He felt the shuttle’s engines hum, vibrating the whole vessel as it took off and began its perilous journey back to the _Black Talon._


	9. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier faces the consequences of his actions on the Black Talon.

Zavahier sat with his hands in his lap, his eyes closed against the pain. Each jerk of the shuttle as it dodged and weaved its way through the space between the _Brentaal Star_ and the _Black Talon_ sent a fresh spike of pain. He was concentrating on not giving any other external signs of being hurt, using the same strategy that had allowed him to survive the ritual in the tomb of Naga Sadow: rather than fighting the pain, he embraced it, accepting it as a part of himself. He could endure anything when he didn’t try to distance himself from it.

But he was distracted when he felt movement nearby, and the brush of someone sitting down in the seat next to him. Zavahier opened his eyes and realised it was Mezzeni who had joined him, and she had a medical kit in her hands.

“You’re hurt,” she said simply.

“I’m fine,” Zavahier replied shortly.

“No, you’re not. I don’t need the Force to see that. You’re not as good at concealing it as you think you are,” Mezzeni insisted. “Now let me take a look.”

Yet still Zavahier hesitated, simply because he knew what Mezzeni thought of him, and he therefore didn’t have any reason to believe that she cared about his injuries. There would be medical droids on the _Black Talon_ that would treat his injuries… and without lecturing him, which was what he thought Mezzeni would do. “I don’t need your help. And why would you even care?”

Mezzeni was silent for a moment, and then said, “Look, I’m not going to make a secret of it. I don’t like you. In fact, you disgust me. I’m not opposed to killing – I wouldn’t be with Imperial Intelligence if I was – but the way you seem to enjoy it is repulsive. But pain makes people volatile, and the last thing you need is any more of _that_. So I’m going to treat your injuries before you go on another killing spree. Now give me your hands.”

Zavahier considered pointing out that the pain of his burns was actually holding him back – that it made holding his lightsabre or channelling lightning painful enough that he wished to avoid doing them – but he realised quite quickly that this probably wouldn’t help matters at all. So after a few moments, he held out his hands and allowed her to treat them. The worst of the burns were on his fingertips, unsurprisingly, with smaller burns in the palms of his hands, both places that came into the most contact with his lightning.

Mezzeni deftly applied a kolto salve, as well as a specialised gel for healing burns, and applied spray bandages to his hands and fingers. “How did these burns happen, anyway?” she asked him as she worked.

“My own lightning,” Zavahier replied with a little hesitation.

“And that doesn’t bother you? That your own powers can hurt you?” Mezzeni asked in faint surprise.

“Should it?” Zavahier asked simply. He knew that using the dark side of the Force could be hard on the body. He’d seen the physical changes in older, more experienced Sith, and knew it was something he should expect to endure himself one day too. But there was no shame in it. If anything, it was viewed by most Sith as a kind of badge of honour, proof of their strength. And Zavahier had come to see it that way himself; some of his powers were draining to use, and the more lightning he channelled, the greater the chance of him burning his hands or forearms with it. “The things I can do with the Force sometimes have consequences. But it’s worth it.”

“Hmmm…” Mezzeni replied, not at all sounding convinced. “I think you’re crazy. If my weapon burned my hands, I’d get a new one.”

Zavahier just shrugged. “It doesn’t happen all the time. I suppose I may have gotten a little carried away,” he finally conceded.

“A little?” Mezzeni asked him with raised eyebrows. “You practically disintegrated that Jedi!”

Zavahier frowned at her, and then said, “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” Mezzeni insisted.

He considered refusing to answer, both because he was reluctant to admit to any kind of weakness or vulnerability, and also because he didn’t think he should have to justify his actions to anyone, especially someone who wasn’t Sith. Yet Mezzeni was staring at him intently, looking him in the eyes and expecting some kind of response from him.

“My Force-sensitivity was discovered only a few months ago. There’s a lot I still don’t know about my own powers. And today was the first time I could use my whole strength without…” Zavahier began, and then paused for a moment. “Well… without somebody stopping me. I wanted to see what I could do when nobody’s trying to control me.”

Mezzeni’s expression softened, just slightly. “I can understand that. The first time I went on a mission alone, it was… exciting to be able to make decisions for myself, to decide how best to accomplish the task. It’s easy to get carried away. But killing should be a means to an end, not something you take pleasure in. You don’t need to become a monster.”

“Who said I’m going to?” Zavahier snapped. It wasn’t the first time someone called him that, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. It was also, in his mind, a thoroughly uncalled-for description. Some of his fellow acolytes had called him a monster… but they had been the ones to betray him, not the other way around. Everyone who said he was a monster clearly didn’t know what the word really meant. “I don’t hurt people that obey me. So why does it matter that I enjoy challenging myself?”

“I’m not going to argue with you,” Mezzeni said swiftly, before getting up and taking a few steps down the central aisle of the shuttle. Then she paused, and looked back at him over her shoulder. “Get yourself some gloves of the same material your robes are made of. Maybe that might help protect your hands in future.”

Then she turned her back on him again, and went to treat the injuries sustained by the other marines.

And although he was still rather irritated with Mezzeni’s behaviour – which was almost as self-righteous as the Jedi’s – he had to admit that maybe there was some merit to the idea of gloves. A cortosis-weave material, perhaps also imbued with some of his own Force power, would make him less vulnerable to being burned by his own lightning… Not that he _intended_ to burn himself again. But if he accepted the possibility that it _might_ happen during some of those more challenging battles, when he needed to draw on his full strength, then protecting himself made sense. Assuming that he could still summon lightning while his hands were covered? That would require a little experimentation…

It wasn’t long before the shuttle reached the _Black Talon_, coming in to a smooth landing in the hangar. The battle outside was still raging, with both ships still firing on each other, and the fighters engaged in a dramatic dogfight in the space between them. Zavahier wasn’t completely certain, but he thought the Imperial forces had the upper hand. But he didn’t have the time to watch for long. He led the way out of the hangar and through the corridors of the _Black Talon_. Something had happened on the bridge, and he needed to find out what.

An elevator took Zavahier and those under his command up several decks to the bridge, and the fact that something was wrong was immediately obvious when the doors slid open. It was, after all, completely impossible to miss the fact that the floor of the bridge was strewn with bodies. His initial thought was that a Republic boarding party had somehow managed to get to the _Black Talon_, but there had been no signs of combat anywhere else, and none of the bodies on the bridge were wearing Republic armour. As dubiously competent as the crew were, it seemed unlikely that they’d allowed themselves to be slaughtered without killing even _one_ of their opponents.

So what had happened here?

Zavahier picked his way across the bridge, stepping around or over the bodies. The only survivor appeared to be NR-02.

“Welcome back. I’m pleased to see that you have returned whole,” the protocol droid greeted him. “I do apologise for the condition of the bridge. As I’d intended to explain earlier, there was an incident.”

“There are corpses all over the floor,” Zavahier said, looking around at the bodies. “This is what you call an ‘incident’? You’d better tell me what happened, or I’m going to be very unhappy.”

“Several of the crew were extremely agitated by your behaviour,” NR-02 began.

Behind him, Zavahier heard a muttered remark from Mezzeni that sounded faintly like ‘I told you so’. But before he could round on her, NR-02 continued his explanation. “Ensign Hetter feared you might execute anyone who failed to contribute to the mission—”

“At what point did I say anything even _remotely_ like that?” Zavahier interrupted heatedly.

NR-02 didn’t dignify that with an answer. “A group of officers attempted to flee the ship before you returned. Lieutenant Sylas objected, and a firefight broke out. There were a large number of casualties. But don’t worry – I’m fully capable of piloting the ship to Dromund Kaas.”

Zavahier took a moment to absorb this, and looked around at the scattered bodies again. “You’re telling me they panicked and killed one another?” he asked, just to make sure he was understanding all of this correctly.

“That is correct. It was unexpected,” NR-02 confirmed.

“This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t killed the captain,” Mezzeni said.

This time Zavahier _did_ turn and face her, but he struggled to find the power to summon the lightning he wished to use on her. “I don’t need any more of your opinions, thank you. All this crew had to do was _obey_. I didn’t expect any more of them than that.”

Mezzeni had the good sense to back away from him. “You threatened to murder them all. Multiple times. You terrorised them to the point that they thought they needed to run away just to keep their lives! Whoever decided the Sith should automatically be in charge of everything was clearly a deeply foolish individual.”

“I think that would be the Emperor, right?” Kaliyo asked.

“Yeah, I suppose so,” Mezzeni replied, apparently deciding better than to call the Emperor a fool again. “I’m sure the Emperor didn’t have _him_ in mind when he made that rule.”

Much to Zavahier’s surprise, Khem left his side and stepped towards Mezzeni. “Be silent. I should devour you for questioning my master,” the Dashade growled.

“He said shut up or he’ll eat you,” Zavahier translated helpfully, rather enjoying Khem’s intervention. He knew the Dashade didn’t have a lot of respect for him, but his reaction to Mezzeni’s criticism showed he had, at some point, come to respect Zavahier enough to defend his actions. Perhaps Khem had found his displays of power worthy of a tiny amount of respect.

Mezzeni backed away from Khem, choosing to stay silent… though quite clearly unhappy about it.

“Grand Moff Kilran is eagerly awaiting your report,” NR-02 said, speaking up to break the tense silence. “Shall I put him through?”

“With the crew dead, I suppose there’s not much else to do,” Zavahier said.

“Opening channel now,” NR-02 replied, and he went to the holoterminal, establishing a connection with his master.

The hologram of Kilran appeared above the holoterminal, and he smiled when he saw Zavahier and NR-02. “Well, how fortunate I could reach my friends aboard the _Black Talon_. The droid’s been keeping me apprised of your work, but I very much wanted to hear from you. How did the attack go?”

“What’s to hear? I did what you wanted,” Zavahier said, feeling irritable and defensive, as he fully expected as much criticism from Kilran as he’d received from Mezzeni.

And indeed, NR-02 said admonishingly, “Please respond appropriately to the Grand Moff.”

But Kilran was completely unworried by Zavahier’s tone of voice, and if anything, his smile grew. “Please, I’m in good cheer. There’s no need for any poisonings tonight,” he said.

Great, now Zavahier was going to be too suspicious of a potential poisoning attempt to actually eat anything until the ship arrived at Dromund Kaas. No matter what Kilran said, the fact that a poisoned dinner was even an option made Zavahier doubt the Grand Moff’s sincerity.

“The _Brentaal Star_ has been disabled, and the General is dead,” Zavahier said, choosing to give a more detailed report on his success. Not that he thought it would make much of a difference. He had thought, for a while, that he wouldn’t have to tolerate any more disapproval. But Mezzeni’s disdain for his actions bothered him, and it was a natural assumption that Kilran would also object to the decisions he’d made.

But Kilran seemed to have only one criticism to make: “A pity you couldn’t bring him back alive – but really, it makes little difference. You should be proud. This is only one of many operations we’re conducting across the galaxy: it’s a new beginning to the war. And the General was one of the greatest weapons the Republic had – a defector! – and you’ve snatched him from enemy hands. I’ll remember this, and I’ll make sure you’re rewarded.”

Genuinely taken aback by the praise – something he _really_ wasn’t used to receiving at the best of times, and the complete opposite of what he’d expected to hear now – Zavahier was silent for a moment. Then, because he didn’t want to admit to being surprised, he shrugged and said, “It livened up the journey. I appreciate the distraction.”

“Ah, yes,” Kilran said, faint amusement in his voice. “When military strategy and Sith entertainments combine, it’s surely a good day. I’ll make sure your heroism is mentioned when I report to the other Moffs.”

Zavahier started to smile, and then bit his lip, concealing his pleasure at Kilran’s continued praise. He liked the idea that his actions – viewed with such contempt by Mezzeni – were being considered heroic by the Grand Moff. Assuming, of course, that NR-02 had reported _all _the details. But he also received the distinct impression that Kilran was more than accustomed to dealing with Sith, and was choosing his words carefully. Zavahier knew when he was being handled. And he resented it a little… but less than Mezzeni’s open criticism. It meant he would be willing to work with Kilran in future, if the Grand Moff only cared about the results rather than the methods used.

So Zavahier opted for the polite response. “Thank you. It’s most appreciated.”

“My words hardly matter,” Kilran said dismissively. “Soon you’ll be joining us on the homeworld, and you can see for yourself what you’ve been fighting for. It should be inspiring. Enjoy the rest of your journey. Kilran out.”

NR-02 terminated the connection, and then moved to the next console. “Plotting a course for Dromund Kaas. The journey will take a day, so I recommend you retire to your quarters and enjoy the _Black Talon_’s amenities.”

Zavahier stayed on the bridge for a little longer, mostly just so he could watch the _Black Talon_’s acceleration into hyperspace, before deciding that NR-02’s suggestion was a good one. He’d drawn on more power than he’d ever done before, and now he was feeling the effects. Some rest was more than called for. And he deserved it, no matter what Mezzeni had to say about it.

He had the bath that he’d promised himself, spending several hours soaking in the hot water as he cleaned himself and let his tired muscles relax. It was only afterwards, as he dried himself off and began combing the tangles out of his hair that he caught his own reflection in the mirror. And did a double take, looking back to study himself in more detail. What had seemed like a trick of the light was in fact something far more interesting: his eyes were no longer dark brown, but had lightened to a shade of bright golden orange.

Of course, he had been expecting this to happen one day. Any Sith with any real power would experience such changes, and Zavahier was the most powerful Sith he knew of. But he really hadn’t thought it would happen quite this soon. He guessed it must have occurred when he’d killed the Jedi. Such a massive outpouring of passion and dark power had been enough to alter him physically.

It was actually quite fascinating, wasn’t it?

And the longer he gazed at his own reflection, the more he liked his new eye colour. It felt like the mark of a true Sith, and it was proof of his strength in the dark side.

Not only that, but now he looked a little bit less like his father. Zavahier was very much like Denal Rawste – rather plain-looking, in other words – but with darker hair and skin. But he had been completely unaware of these similarities until he was freed from slavery and had seen himself in a mirror for the very first time. He hadn’t even _known_ that Rawste was his father until that day. Since then, looking at his own reflection had been difficult, being confronted with the truth of his parentage every time he saw himself. As he had gained weight and started to lose the starved, emaciated look of a slave, the similarities between him and his father had only become more pronounced.

But Zavahier could at least look into his eyes and not see the man who had defected from the Republic because there was greater profit in dealing with the Empire. His face might mirror his father, but his eyes were those of a Sith. A powerful being with a proven connection to the awe-inspiring power of the dark side.

Yes, he liked his new eye colour a lot. It was just the rest of his face that was the problem.

Zavahier wondered if the change in his eyes was why Mezzeni had been so unnerved by his behaviour. If the change in his eye colour had been unexpected for him – when he already knew it was a possibility – then how must it have looked to Mezzeni, who was seemingly quite inexperienced when it came to Sith?

Well, at this point it didn’t really matter. When the _Black Talon_ arrived on Dromund Kaas, they would be going their separate ways. They would have no further reason to interact with each other, and would likely never meet again. Perhaps Zavahier felt a little regret about that… but only because having contacts within Imperial Intelligence might have been useful. But he didn’t _need_ Mezzeni or Kaliyo. There were trillions of people within the Empire, so there would be others that would prove themselves useful, and building ties with the Imperial military was something he was getting quite good at.

The incidents on the bridge of the _Black Talon_ notwithstanding.

Zavahier wanted people to fear him, but he recognised now that there was a balance between fear and outright terror. They should fear him, but not to the extent that they started killing each other because of what he may or may not do to them. He wanted respect _and _fear in equal measure.

Maybe even love, if he could manage it. Wouldn’t that be nice, to have underlings that followed him out of true loyalty and devotion, and a belief that he would be a better leader than any other Sith?

Could he make that happen?

Fear, respect, love and loyalty.

Executing the Captain had still been the right decision, though. The man had been a coward and a traitor, and there was no room for either in the Empire. Zavahier just thought – privately, of course – that perhaps he should have gone a little easier on the rest of the crew. If he was ever going to claim the loyalty of the Imperial military, it would be by proving himself a worthy leader. Someone who was strong and powerful, but who could also be trusted not to kill his servants for no reason at all.

Maybe that was the point Mezzeni had been trying to make?

Or perhaps not. Just because he was going to be more cautious about how he treated his underlings didn’t mean he was going to stop enjoying torturing and killing his enemies. Those who obeyed him would live. Those who did not would be killed. It was that simple.


	10. Dromund Kaas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier arrives at the very heart of the Empire.

Zavahier managed to avoid Mezzeni and Kaliyo for the rest of the journey to Dromund Kaas. It actually wasn’t very difficult, given he had his own luxurious quarters and little reason to venture out of them. Even his meals were delivered to him by droids. And thoroughly scanned for poisons before he ate, thanks to the paranoia inspired by Kilran.

But if one good thing had come out of all of this, it was that Zavahier had finally earned Khem Val’s respect. The Dashade considered his destruction of the Jedi to be an appropriate display of power for a Sith, something that was further proven by Zavahier’s newly golden eyes. And while he still called Zavahier ‘little’, he was more willing to actually converse with him without repeatedly declaring that he would devour him at the earliest opportunity. So they spent much of the rest of the journey to Dromund Kaas talking. Zavahier updated Khem on as much of the history of the last two thousand years as he had learned in his time in the Academy, and Khem shared with him some stories of Tulak Hord.

And they were fascinating! Zavahier had developed an interest in history during his time at the Academy, but there was something about hearing of the exploits of Tulak Hord directly from the Bantha’s mouth, so to speak, that made it all seem so much more _real_ than reading about it in a book. Khem remembered all the little details that nobody ever thought to write down.

By the time the _Black Talon_ dropped out of hyperspace and settled into a low orbit over Dromund Kaas, Zavahier was well-rested – though his hands were still rather tender – and eager for more adventure. And even before NR-02 informed him that the ship had reached its destination, he knew where they were. The world beneath the _Black Talon_ radiated so much dark energy that Zavahier sensed it as soon as the ship left hyperspace. It felt rather different to Korriban, though. The dark side of the Force was stronger here, and more… alive. This was a place for the living, not the dead.

Zavahier quickly gathered his belongings and made his way to the transport shuttle that would take him, Khem and Shâsot to the surface. Mezzeni and Kaliyo were there as well, but they sat on the opposite side of the shuttle, keeping away from him and avoiding his gaze. He chose to follow suit, pushing them from his mind and instead focusing on the planet itself, stretching out his senses to brush against Dromund Kaas’ dark power.

By the time the shuttle reached the planet, Zavahier was infused with restless energy. It was all he could do to sit still while the shuttle came in for a landing, but with the heavy turbulence in the planet’s atmosphere, the pilot insisted that everybody remain seated. But once the shuttle had set down, Zavahier was the first to disembark, finding himself in a spaceport that seemed identical in design and construction as the one he’d visited on his homeworld, Caekarro. Yet despite his enthusiasm, he couldn’t just hurry through the spaceport to get his first proper view of Dromund Kaas. There were other shuttles that had arrived at the same time, creating a crowd of people all heading in the same direction. Frustrated to find his path repeatedly blocked, he resorted to shocking anybody who got in his way, though it barely seemed to help.

The reason for the delay was a series of security checkpoints and customs scans. As Zavahier reached the console to check in, a probe droid floated towards him and scanned him, presumably searching for contraband. Zavahier wondered for a moment if it would attempt to stop him – he was, after all, carrying a number of artefacts, as well as a skull that he’d taken as a trophy during a ritual at the Academy, and he was followed by a Tuk’ata for which he had no documentation at all. But the probe droid considered none of these items noteworthy enough to prevent him going through the checkpoint, and it drifted off to scan a Zabrak woman in heavy armour using the next console.

As Zavahier went to go through the checkpoint, his attention was drawn to a man of an alien species he was unfamiliar with – a muscular creature with a furred, almost feline face – who was seemingly not as welcome on Dromund Kaas as Zavahier was. One of the sentries blocked the alien’s attempt to go past the consoles, and then hit him hard with the butt of his rifle. The alien growled as he staggered forward, and was escorted away by two other sentries.

It was nice to not be the subject of such treatment, wasn’t it? Nobody would dare do that to a Sith. Zavahier looked away from the alien, and weaved his way through the now thinning crowd of people. He saw an opening a short way ahead of him, a place where the crowd parted, and he went towards it, picking up his pace. He wanted to get out of this crowded spaceport and see the actual planet!

But Zavahier soon realised _why_ the crowd had spread out; in his haste to get through, he almost walked into another Sith. Taken by surprise, and sensing instant hostility radiating from the other Sith, he backed away several paces before the huge, heavily armoured man could shove him away.

The Sith was a lot taller than him, and his face was covered with cybernetic implants, including one of his eyes. Zavahier realised then that the man wasn’t wearing armour, but was in fact _made_ of metal, with robotic arms and legs. There didn’t seem to be much of him that _wasn’t_ cybernetic, in fact. Yet he radiated power, and he glared down at Zavahier with contempt.

Behind the Sith were two alien bodyguards, reptilian creatures that Zavahier guessed were Trandoshans. They glanced at each other when Zavahier backed away from their master, and then the one on the right spoke in a harsh, growling language, the meaning of which Zavahier sensed through the Force: “My master! Isn’t this soft-skinned one the toy of Zash, the golden-haired lord?”

“Quiet, bodyguard. Save your hissing for your own kind,” the cyborg Sith said, glancing over his shoulder at the Trandoshan. His voice had a metallic, artificial quality, as if he couldn’t speak without his cybernetics. After reprimanding his bodyguard, he looked down at Zavahier again. “As for you, slave, Darth Skotia is passing. Best get out of his way.”

This Sith was probably used to everybody getting out of his path as he walked. The rest of the crowd had done exactly that. But Zavahier wasn’t so easily bullied. Yes, Darth Skotia was more than a little intimidating – he was huge! – but that didn’t mean Zavahier was going to let anyone push him around. Especially not someone who called him ‘slave’. Or who referred to themselves in the third person, for that matter.

“Darth Skotia can wait,” Zavahier said forcefully.

“You’re making a huge mistake, filth,” Skotia replied, and as he spoke, all the people nearby began backing away, bunching up against the walls to create space for the fight that seemed likely to break out. Nobody wanted to get between two Sith that were getting ready to kill each other, nor did they want to be caught in the crossfire.

But Zavahier wasn’t completely convinced of his ability to actually defeat this one. Skotia wasn’t an acolyte or a fellow apprentice. He was a Darth, and an immensely powerful one at that. But though Zavahier _felt_ frightened of Darth Skotia, he wasn’t going to show it. Instead, he would let everybody here think he was confident and unafraid. And it was definitely time for Skotia to know the fate of Ortosin. “You sent that weakling apprentice to kill me,” Zavahier said in a coldly accusatory voice.

“It looks like I didn’t try hard enough to get rid of you,” Skotia replied. “I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

For a moment, it looked as though the cyborg would reach for his lightsabre and attack. But he seemed to change his mind, and said, “Give your master a message for me: my eye is on her, and I know. Tell her that. I know what she’s trying to do here on Dromund Kaas. You and your master have gotten this far – but it ends here, slave. I alone have the key. Tell her that. You and your master have no future on Dromund Kaas or in the Sith Order. Tell her that.”

Halfway through this speech, Zavahier shifted impatiently, crossing his arms and resisting the temptation to simply blast the Darth into oblivion. All of those cybernetics had to be vulnerable to lightning, surely?

“Anything _else_ you want me to tell her? Like how you’re too pathetic to even kill an apprentice?” Zavahier asked, once Skotia had _finally_ finished telling him everything he needed to relay to Zash. Then, with a faint smile, he looked over his shoulder at Khem. “What do you think? Can you eat him?”

“It is more machine than man, I think,” Khem replied. “Bad for the digestion.”

“Get out of my way, slave,” Skotia said, taking a menacing step forwards.

“Oh, go fall in a Sarlacc pit,” Zavahier said, holding his ground despite the wall of machinery looming over him. Of course he wanted to kill Skotia himself. But that was currently beyond him… and a Sarlacc pit promised a thousand years of suffering. But the real upside to the suggestion was that it created a ripple of amusement amongst the people who’d stopped to watch the confrontation. Any Sith could just bark out threats of death and dismemberment. But by making the crowd laugh at Skotia, he undermined the Darth’s power and influence, while amplifying his own. He might only be an apprentice now, but he had high ambitions… and he wanted the Empire to follow _him_, not thugs like Skotia.

“Ha! Fools,” Skotia said dismissively as he stepped around Zavahier to continue on his way.

Zavahier turned on the spot, watching the Darth’s retreating back. One of the Trandoshans shouldered its way past him, shoving him to the side. He gave a grunt that bordered on a snarl of anger, but held himself back from killing Skotia’s bodyguards. It would just lead to a fight he couldn’t win. He was _frightened_. His heart pounded in his chest, and his hands were shaking, though he tried to conceal it by thrusting them into his pockets. He knew he’d been reckless in standing up to someone as powerful as Skotia. He could have been killed. Yet he’d held his ground, and Skotia had been forced to go around him.

The fear was thrilling.

Exciting.

There was nothing like antagonising his ‘betters’ to make him feel _alive_.

And since _every_ Sith considered themselves superior to him, there would always be plenty of his ‘betters’ to provoke, and thus plenty of fuel for his fear. But he knew the truth: he was better and stronger than any other Sith. They could try to destroy him all they wished. They could look down on him and plot his demise, and it would change _nothing._ He would survive. He would still be standing at the end of it, and they would be forced to concede victory to him.

And when it suited him, he would kill them.

One day, somehow, he would kill Skotia.

But for now, he was happy with the minor victory he had secured. Still terrified, still shaking slightly, but he was pleased that he’d won.

And then a more sobering thought occurred to him: he’d been here a grand total of fifteen minutes, and someone had already threatened him. It wasn’t exactly surprising, but it was…

Predictable.

Zavahier’s pleasure faded away, leaving him with that far more familiar sense of cynicism. He stepped backwards, moving to press his back against the nearest wall, and allowed the crowd to disperse. Most of them just seemed glad that no _actual_ fighting had happened; a battle between two Sith promised to be violent and destructive, and there would almost certainly be collateral damage in such an enclosed space as this. Zavahier didn’t know much about Skotia’s powers, but he knew his own strength: when he fought another Sith, he would be fighting to win and thus he would _not_ be holding back, even if there were spectators.

It seemed that the average Imperial citizen expected nothing less.

Only once his spectators had moved on did he push himself away from the wall and make his way outside.

Zavahier wasn’t really sure what he’d been expecting Dromund Kaas to look like, but a dark, wet jungle certainly wasn’t it. Yet when he left the spaceport, that was exactly what he found. The sky above was dark and overcast, with irregular flashes of distant lightning illuminating the nearby trees. It was raining heavily, and the path was almost a swamp of churned up mud.

But the moment he saw the wilds of Dromund Kaas, he _loved_ it. The dark energy was almost palpable, and the lightning in the sky energised him. The jungle itself was wild and untamed, filled with the power of the dark side. Now he knew exactly why he’d started to feel restless from the moment the _Black Talon_ had entered orbit. This world was _meant_ for Sith like him!

He sprang down the ramp that led out of the spaceport, hopping lightly between the puddles until he reached a metal platform on the other side of the path. He was too caught up in his own energy – so much of it he felt he might explode if he didn’t do _something _to let it out – to care much about how dignified he looked. He felt the raindrops pattering against his robes, seeping through the cloth to dampen his skin and hair. He heard the wind flowing through the trees, rustling the leaves, a sound almost indistinguishable from the rain. And he sensed the Force itself within everything around him. Every tree and plant, every rock, every animal in the jungle, every person in or near the spaceport. This world was so much more _alive_ than Korriban.

Khem followed him out of the spaceport, and stomped through the mud without hesitation. Though his face was difficult to read, Zavahier thought the Dashade was unable to choose between disapproval and faint amusement; a real Sith should behave with more dignity and gravitas, but Zavahier’s reaction to Dromund Kaas’ dark presence in the Force was a clear indication of his power and connection to the dark side.

But Zavahier stopped when he heard someone trying to stifle a laugh, and he whirled towards it, spotting a soldier hiding her smile behind her hand. With her round face and pert nose, she was quite pretty, but still smartly dressed in the uniform of an officer, her dark hair pulled back into a braid.

“I’m sorry, my lord. I meant no disrespect. I’ve just never seen anyone so excited by this miserable wet forest before,” she said apologetically.

“There’s so much energy here. It’s _wonderful_,” Zavahier replied, realising as he spoke that she had no way of knowing what he meant by this. She wasn’t Force-sensitive, and nor was she attuned to the dark side. To her, this was just a dark, stormy world. She couldn’t see it the way he did. He would have to wait for Karroh to get here if he wanted someone to appreciate the way he felt. But he was far too enthralled by this world to even be angry at her for laughing at him.

“I’ll take your word for it,” she said with another giggle.

“Get back to work, Kenyard,” another soldier ordered sharply.

“Sorry, sir,” the young woman said, hurrying away.

Zavahier glanced at the man who had spoken, a middle aged soldier who was presumably Kenyard’s commanding officer. He was, like many officers in the Imperial military, impeccably clean and tidy, and he had avoided getting wet by standing beneath a small shelter next to the speeder platform. He was inclined to simply ignore the man; the officer had his own duties to attend to, whatever they may be, while Zavahier himself had the prospect of a long journey to Kaas City.

He had yet to get his speeder piloting licence. He’d _meant_ to find time to learn how to fly while at the Academy, but between his studies and trials, and the fact that there had always been more pressing uses for his credits, he hadn’t been able to take any piloting lessons.

So he would be walking to Kaas City.

Exactly how far away was it?

He went back into the spaceport and located a computer terminal so he could consult a map of the area. There was what could loosely be described as a road leading from the spaceport to Kaas City, which was fifteen kilometres away.

It was going to be a _long_ walk.

At least he had the energy for it. And he doubted the journey would be uneventful. He would probably have the opportunity to see what Dromund Kaas’ dark energy did to his powers. With such a storm in the sky, he thought his lightning would work well here. Zavahier transferred a copy of the map to his datapad, so that he could refer to it along the way, reducing his chances of getting lost, and then left the spaceport once again.

The officer he’d ignored earlier was waiting for him, having stepped out into the rain so he could approach Zavahier. “I’m Commander Rilan, my Lord. I apologise for my abruptness, but I’m afraid I must request assistance with an emergency,” the man said quickly.

Zavahier considered this for a moment, and then shrugged. Why not hear him out? “Alright, what is it?” he asked.

“Something is stirring up the jungle beasts, which makes the route between here and Kaas City hazardous. Several individuals travelling on foot have disappeared. I’ve even had reports of jungle beasts attacking speeders,” Rilan explained. “One of the speeders that was attacked belonged to an Admiral. She escaped serious injury, but the situation demands immediate attention.”

“How delightful. Dromund Kaas is going to be more exciting than I thought,” Zavahier remarked. A few aggressive beasts wouldn’t be able to stand up to him, of course, but it would be fun to have a little excitement on what would otherwise be a rather long, dull walk through the jungle. Yet he also sensed that Rilan’s words weren’t intended as a warning to him personally, but were rather an explanation of how the beasts were causing problems for people who lacked Zavahier’s strength. “Sounds like you need some help.”

A look of relief crossed Rilan’s pale face. “Given the circumstances, I believe someone of your abilities is precisely what’s needed. I dispatched two commando teams into the jungle to clear out the beasts, but they never returned. An emergency holomessage came through from one of the team leaders. I’ll play it for you…”

Rilan held up a comlink, and a holographic image of another soldier appeared above it. “… repeat, landing beacons are emitting some kind of energy! Power surges are driving the beasts mad! Can’t get close enough to reroute power… lost my team… beasts closing in… need reinforce—”

The man’s words were cut off as a large beast tore through him. There was a flash of the beast’s shape – something large and feline – before the holomessage cut off.

“Sensors confirm unusual energy readings in the jungle. The spaceport’s landing beacons appear to be the cause,” Rilan continued as he pocketed the comlink.

Zavahier nodded. He didn’t know much about the technology of landing beacons, but he _did_ know beasts. He could easily imagine them becoming agitated and aggressive if the beacons were emitting energy at a frequency that was somehow disruptive or painful. Animals could often hear sounds that humans couldn’t. “Do we _need_ these landing beacons?” he asked, wondering if just shutting them off was an option. That did seem to be the easiest solution to the problem.

“Yes, my lord,” Rilan replied. “Without proper guidance, approaching ships can easily stray off course and crash into the jungle.”

Zavahier looked around him, taking in the dense forest around him, as well as the thick cloud cover and heavy rain. Yes, a lot of ships _would_ have trouble finding the spaceport in the midst of all this, wouldn’t they? “Alright, I’ll help. Tell me what to do.”

“I’m deeply grateful for your assistance, my Lord,” Rilan replied, and he really sounded appreciative. “The spaceport’s landing beacons are scattered throughout the nearby jungle. You’ll need to reroute power on all of them. This datapad has the instructions. I’ll track your progress from here. Return when you’re done. And be careful. The jungle predators are fierce.”

“I’ll be fine,” Zavahier said, taking the datapad from Rilan; it detailed the location of each of the landing beacons, and it also had a list of instructions for how to correct the power flowing through them, correcting the energy signature. The beacons truly were scattered across the area, with no obvious efficient route to go from one to the next without crossing the same ground. So Zavahier picked the closest one and headed towards it.

“Why are we doing this?” Khem asked as he followed Zavahier through the wet, muddy jungle. “It is a menial errand unworthy of us.”

“Because I like it when the military owes me,” Zavahier replied. “I’m never going to be accepted amongst the other Sith – Darth Skotia proved that for me quite nicely – so my power must be obtained through securing the support of the Imperial Army and Navy instead.”

“That is far more cunning than I expected of you, little Sith,” Khem said, accepting this explanation.

“I have my moments,” Zavahier said.

As he approached the first landing beacon, he paused in his steps so that he could listen properly; there _was_ in fact a barely audible whine emanating from the landing beacon, a high pitched buzz that was uncomfortable to listen to. Whether this would have been audible to any of the men Rilan sent out was hard to say – Zavahier’s own senses were aided by the Force, giving him greater sensitivity than a typical person – but he was certain that the jungle beasts could hear it. They probably found it no more pleasant to listen to than he did. He approached the landing beacon and began to reroute the power as Rilan had instructed. But he was only half done when his senses prickled, and he spun around just in time to see a dark green beast leaping out of a thicket.

Zavahier leaped to one side, striking the beast – now recognisable as a Vine Cat – with lightning as it landed on the place where he’d just been standing. As it turned towards him, he drew and activated his lightsabre. In the same moment it swiped at him with a massive green paw armed with vicious talons, and he slashed at it, easily severing the Vine Cat’s leg. It howled in pain and staggered to the side. But before Zavahier could plunge his lightsabre into its brain, Khem decapitated it with a broad sweep of his vibrosword. The Vine Cat crumpled to the ground, blood seeping from the stump of its neck and mixing with the mud of the forest floor.

“I’m really beginning to wonder about the competence of this galaxy, you know,” Zavahier commented as he kicked the beast’s severed head away from him. “I thought these things were supposed to be _dangerous_.”

He turned back to the landing beacon to continue his task. The sound of fangs tearing through flesh told him Shâsot was taking the opportunity to devour the dead Vine Cat. After he’d entered the last few commands, the landing beacon gave a series of beeps to confirm that Zavahier’s reconfiguration had been successful… and yes, he could sense the difference in the sound it emitted too.

Zavahier left the first landing beacon and followed the path up a steep slope, keeping to the side to avoid the worst of the mud. He left Shâsot behind, allowing the Tuk’ata to enjoy his meal; he would catch up with them when he was done. And Zavahier reached out with his senses, remaining alert to the movements of the beasts in the area; the heavy rain reduced visibility, and the jungle – a dense collection of trees and undergrowth – provided plenty of cover for a stalking predator.

Yet it seemed the changes to the landing beacons had enraged the beasts so much that they didn’t even _try_ to stalk him carefully. As soon as Zavahier came close enough for them to see or hear him, they simply attacked. He didn’t get very far before two large, green animals came at him. Khem engaged one of the strange beasts, allowing Zavahier to focus all his attention on the second one. It had pincers, mandibles, rocky protrusions on its back and a bony crest around its head… and it was completely unfamiliar to him. Something native to Dromund Kaas, no doubt.

It had small eyes and no visible ears, so it probably relied primarily on its sense of smell. It reached out with one foreleg, snapping its huge pincers at him. Zavahier blocked the attack with his lightsabre, watching as the pincers snapped closed on the red blade and were instantly separated from the creature’s leg. Then he launched himself forward, sending a blast of lightning into the beast’s face, and then throwing it back before it could retaliate. He slammed it hard into the rock face. Twice. Three times. Its exoskeleton cracked open, and Zavahier darted forward as the beast fell to the ground. He stabbed his lightsabre through the broken crack in its carapace.

A powerful fist threw Zavahier off his feet, and he landed heavily in the mud. He struggled back onto his feet, feeling the sticky mess of rain and swamp clinging to his robes. And he soon spotted this new attacker; his fight with the green thing had attracted a Gundark, a powerful hairy beast with ridiculous flared ears and four massive arms.

Unable to move as swiftly as he would have liked with so much mud weighing him down, Zavahier built up and then unleashed a barrage of lightning at the Gundark. Just as he’d suspected, Dromund Kaas’ electrically charged atmosphere did indeed add some strength to his lightning, creating a crack of thunder that Zavahier thought compared favourably with the storm raging overhead. The rain became heavier, pelting him with heavy splashes of water, and he felt the wind pick up. The Gundark was thrown backwards by the force of Zavahier’s lightning, and he didn’t give it a chance to get up. A stream of purple lightning left his fingers, wrapping around the Gundark and travelling through the muddy puddles. He felt some sparks strike him as well; small, stinging pains that nourished his fear and anger.

The Gundark didn’t get up. The two green things were also dead, with a stray bolt of Zavahier’s lightning also finishing off the one Khem had been battling. He let the final sparks dissipate, but the air around him still crackled with electricity. Shâsot caught up with him at this point, and although he sniffed curiously at the dead beasts, he was apparently sated enough to have no interest in eating them.

“Alright, I take it back. Maybe these things _are_ a little dangerous,” he conceded as he pulled himself out of the mud. He was now completely soaked through, and he smelled like a swamp. Well, those green monsters wouldn’t be able to smell him over the rest of the jungle now, would they?

At least Dromund Kaas wasn’t boring.


	11. An Introduction To Politics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier is stuck in the spaceport overnight, so he might as well learn a few things.

Zavahier was more cautious as he made his way through the jungle to the other landing beacons. While he had no particular worries that any of the beasts were strong enough to actually kill him, that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to take them seriously. The sheer aggression of the jungle animals around here was enough to make them dangerous, simply because of their reckless disregard for their own safety. All they cared about was inflicting pain on anything that entered their territory. The rage and pain that emanated from them was palpable. And easy to feed on. Zavahier was not taken by surprise again.

But he still had to fight his way through the jungle to reach each of the landing beacons. It wasn’t just the beasts, but the forest itself; hanging vines and thorny branches snagged on his robes, and the thick mud made each step forward a battle. It was hard going, even with the Force providing him with the strength his body lacked. Khem had an easier time of it, simply due to his great size and strength allowing him to pull himself through obstacles that Zavahier struggled with.

Yet Zavahier would not ask for help. He wouldn’t show weakness. He would never become strong if he relied on others to assist him when things got tough. He wasn’t going to let this jungle, nor the storm, get the better of him. Even so, at one point he became so completely mired in a surprisingly deep and sticky patch of mud that Khem was required to haul him out by the scruff of his neck, a so thoroughly humiliating experience that Zavahier couldn’t bring himself to do anything but growl irritably at the Dashade, refusing to thank him for the assistance.

They reached the next few landing beacons, and Zavahier repaired them as he had the first one. There were no other beacons on this side of the spaceport, so they had to return the way they had come, which was at least mostly downhill; Zavahier slipped and slid down the steep path, getting himself even _more_ plastered with mud, if that was even possible. And then he and Khem began the process again, heading out into the jungle on the opposite side of the space port. What had at first seemed like a quick and easy task was dragging out into hours of hauling himself through the rain and jungle, battling aggressive monsters almost every step of the way.

Zavahier’s previous enthusiasm for Dromund Kaas gave way into irritability… and then into rage. This did at least make killing the jungle beasts easier. The more angry he became, the more impressive his blasts of lightning were, and the more strength he could squeeze from the Force to help him drag himself through this interminable swamp.

“When we get to Kaas City, I’m going to find out who thought it was a good idea to build the spaceport so far away from the city. Then I’m going to kill him. Slowly,” Zavahier snarled, more to himself than to Khem. “And if he’s already dead, I’m going to hunt down his descendants and kill _them_. And anybody who ever _agreed_ that building the spaceport here was a good idea.”

There wasn’t really anything Khem could say to that, so he remained silent as Zavahier continued to complain, pausing only when he needed to focus on the next Gundark that attacked him. Once the beast was dead, however:

“And how do they even get supplies and equipment between the city and the spaceport? It’s completely inefficient.”

He rerouted the power on another landing beacon, and then killed another Vine Cat.

“Does _everyone_ have to walk through this stupid jungle to get anywhere?”

Two more of the green creatures with pincers came at him from the undergrowth. These animals seemed to be becoming more common as the day wore on and darkness fell. Perhaps they were nocturnal. Zavahier killed them with an explosive barrage of lightning.

“Maybe I should demolish the whole damned thing so they can build a new one in a better place? A place that _makes sense_ for the spaceport of a major city.”

The last landing beacon was positioned at the edge of a sheer cliff, and without the shelter of the trees, Zavahier felt oddly exposed to the dark storm raging over his head. When a Vine Cat launched itself at him as he approached the beacon, he grabbed hold of it with the Force and hurled it over the edge and into the steep sided valley below. It crashed through the trees, yowling all the way to the ground. It didn’t survive the fall.

“And then I’m going to flatten this whole pointless jungle!” Zavahier shouted at the world of Dromund Kaas, his words barely audible over the storm raging overhead. The dark side energy that permeated it could fuel his fury just as easily as it could excite him. Perhaps even more so. He really felt he _could_ reduce the spaceport to a pile of rubble and blast the jungle into twisted splinters of wood. And both would deserve it.

Zavahier had not paid a great deal of attention to the route he had taken to get to this final landing beacon, and so he was forced to cease his threats to go on a rampage of destruction in order to figure out exactly where he was. He looked out over the side of the cliff, and soon spotted, some distance away, the roof of the spaceport. As he watched, a transport shuttle rumbled overhead, descending into the valley. It hovered for a moment, waiting until it had clearance to land, before dropping into the landing bay that opened up.

Apparently Zavahier’s repairs to the landing beacons had done at least _some_ good.

Oh, and there were no more jungle beasts attacking him.

Though still in a foul mood, the intensity of his anger subsided. It had served its purpose. He still thought the spaceport had been constructed in a terrible location, of course. But he would hold off on destroying it… for now.

Zavahier followed the path along the top of the cliff and then back down into the valley. He actually found himself feeling glad to be back under the cover of the trees, where the rain was slowed by its fall through the canopy and the wind wasn’t tugging at his robes, trying to pull him over the edge of a huge cliff. But the path he followed now didn’t seem to be the same one he’d climbed on his way to the final landing beacon; it didn’t look familiar, and he couldn’t find the trail of footprints he was sure he must have left behind.

He ducked into the relative shelter of a large tree and consulted his map of the area, and concluded that even though he wasn’t exactly certain of where he was, if he kept heading downhill, he would eventually reach the main road between the spaceport and Kaas City. Then he would only need to follow that path to the east to find the spaceport again. Satisfied that he _wasn’t_ completely lost, he pocketed his datapad and continued onwards.

It wasn’t long before the narrow trail he was following petered out entirely, but by then civilisation was in sight. He scrambled down the escarpment and then jumped down the last few metres, landing on a sheet of metal that covered the muddy path. To the right was a metal barricade forming a bridge over the path; beneath it was a forcefield blocking the path itself, and the large number of guards made it perfectly clear that the road to Kaas City was off limits.

His sudden arrival from the wilderness above the path created a ripple of curiosity amongst the guards, who had probably not been expecting a muddy Sith to leap down from the rocks into their midst. And the curiosity went both ways: there was a blockade here, and Zavahier wanted to know why. He approached the nearest trooper, and asked: “A guard post in the jungle? Keeping something out or in?”

“Out, my lord,” the trooper replied. “When the speeders were pulled off the line, people started braving the deeper jungle – trying to make it to Kaas City on foot.”

Zavahier considered his own experiences with the jungle, and then looked over the guard’s shoulder to the jungle beyond the barricade. “They got themselves killed, didn’t they?”

“Yes, my lord,” the trooper said. “Had a few deaths. Some of the VIPs. Captain Tolto sent us here to keep people out and poke around a bit, see what’s out there.”

“If someone is stupid enough to wander the jungles, they deserve what they get,” Zavahier said harshly, just because he was tired and cold and wet, and thus inclined to be irritable with the galaxy as a whole. Yet he was also entirely aware of the contradiction in his words, given the way he’d spent his afternoon: traipsing through the jungle and getting attacked by beasts. But _he_ could handle it. He doubted the same held true of any of the other people who’d tried to reach Kaas City today.

“As you say, my lord, of course,” the trooper said quickly, though it was clear he disagreed with Zavahier’s sentiments. “But we follow the orders we get.”

“You know what? It’s been a long day. I suppose it’s nice to see the Empire trying to protect its citizens,” Zavahier conceded as he realised that the people who’d gotten themselves killed while trying to get to Kaas City had been the victim of the very same problem he’d been angry at for the last few hours: the foolish decision to place the spaceport in the middle of the jungle. It was easy for him to think they should all just have waited at the spaceport until the route was safe… but how were they to know that a Sith was dealing with the jungle monsters? Just as Zavahier had been working to make the area safer for others, so too was this trooper.

“Yeah, some assignments are definitely better than others,” the trooper said, looking down and brushing the rainwater off his blaster rifle in an almost self-conscious manner.

“So what’s out there?” Zavahier asked, changing the subject.

“We managed to take some data readings, even some holos. Big, nasty critters out there. Nothing to mess with,” the trooper said. “Our runner, unfortunately, is down a leg from the experience. If you’re headed back towards the spaceport, could you give the observation discs to Captain Tolto?”

“Of course,” Zavahier said, taking the collection of discs from the man. He had already accepted that he wouldn’t be going to Kaas City today; the sky was growing darker, and the storm showed no signs of easing any time soon. The spaceport seemed the most sensible shelter for the night, and if he was heading in that direction anyway, he might as well assist these guards in the process.

“Appreciated. The sooner he knows what’s going on, the sooner we can warn people,” the trooper said.

Zavahier nodded, and turned away. He took a couple of steps along the path back to the spaceport, and then paused, looking back at the man he’d spoken to, as well as the other guards patrolling the barricade. “Keep up the good work, men,” he told them. If he wanted the Imperial military to support him, they needed to know he appreciated the work they did. That would make them trust him.

And they had all been highly respectful towards him, hadn’t they? That counted for a lot too. They accepted him as their superior without question, and thus Zavahier felt some small obligation to actually be _worthy_ of that respect. None of these men were his enemy. As long as they were loyal and were ready to obey his commands, he saw no reason to abuse them.

Perhaps he _had_ learned something from his experiences on the _Black Talon_.

The road back to the spaceport was broader and better maintained than the paths Zavahier had used to reach the landing beacons. There were sheets of metal covering the worst patches of mud, and all the tree branches and hanging vines had been cut back and cleared away, creating a nice and easy route between the guard post and the spaceport. Well, easy by the standard set by the other parts of the jungle Zavahier had struggled through. A small group of people heading away from the spaceport seemed to think otherwise, grumbling amongst themselves about the rain, wind and mud beneath their feet.

“I don’t see why I should have to _walk_ to Kaas City. I’m an admiral!” said a tall, middle-aged man with greying hair. There was a clear tone of self-importance in his voice. He considered himself too good to have to walk through the jungle.

Zavahier struck him with a spark of lightning. “Stop complaining, idiot,” he snarled. “And get back to the spaceport. Unless you want to be eaten by monsters.”

The admiral winced at the shock of electricity, and then bristled with anger. It didn’t matter what his rank was. It didn’t matter that he was decades older than Zavahier, and had years of experience as an officer. Even the lowliest of Sith still outranked him, and he seemed like the kind of man who resented being ordered around by every young Sith that crossed his path. He opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated for a moment as he seemed to think better of it. Then changed his mind again, and said, “Now see here, I have an urgent meeting with Darth Marr in Kaas City!”

The man probably thought mentioning the name of a member of the Dark Council would ensure that he got his way. It didn’t work. Zavahier sent another jolt of lightning at the admiral. “And I told you there are monsters in the jungle. The road is closed. But go ahead! Go out there and get eaten! I will _not_ be chasing after you to rescue you!”

There.

He had fulfilled his obligations.

He had given this admiral fair warning that he was heading into danger, which was certainly more than any other Sith would have done. Now Zavahier stalked past the admiral and his companions, refusing to give them any further warnings. If they still wanted to try to get to the city on foot, then they would deserve whatever fate befell them.

“I will report your insolence to Darth Marr,” the admiral announced to Zavahier’s retreating back.

Zavahier didn’t even turn around to face the man. But he did pause in his steps, just so he could say, “Go ahead. Just make sure you _also_ tell him I tried to stop you doing something monumentally stupid.”

Without waiting to see how the admiral responded to that, he set off once again, striding back to the spaceport. Commander Rilan was waiting for him, standing beneath the same shelter alongside the speeder platform. Zavahier approached him, and Rilan stepped back to make room under the shelter, allowing Zavahier to get out of the rain.

“Welcome back, my lord. Sensors indicate you rerouted power to all the landing beacons,” Rilan told him. “Analysis indicates they were deliberately sabotaged to drive the jungle beasts insane. I’m transmitting a full report to Kaas City.”

“If you ever find out who sabotaged the landing beacons, let me know. I would like to kill them.”

“Of course, my lord,” Rilan said quickly, a little unnerved by the malevolence in Zavahier’s words. “Please accept this and my deepest gratitude, my lord.”

“Thank you,” Zavahier replied as he took the credit chip Rilan offered to him. He couldn’t help but notice the rather generous quantity of credits it contained. It might be the hazard pay offered to the men Rilan had first sent to investigate the problems with the landing beacons; since they had been killed in the process, their pay was forfeit, and Zavahier received it instead. It was nice to be appreciated.

He asked Rilan to direct him to Captain Tolto, and was pointed to a thin man just outside the spaceport. Zavahier nodded a final thanks to Rilan, before heading over to Tolto and handing him the observation discs.

“I have a report for you, Captain. It seems there are monsters in the jungle,” he said drily, rather enjoying the statement of the blatantly obvious. Really, if anyone gave it a few moments of thought, it wasn’t at all surprising that the jungle beasts were out there.

“Thank you, my lord. You do us all a great honour by taking notice of our problems,” Tolto replied, apparently completely missing the attempt at humour in Zavahier’s words. He took the discs and gave them a cursory look over. “This is what I needed. I’ll start moving to warn everyone off that path until we can get some full clean-up squads.”

There was no tangible reward for this errand, but Zavahier didn’t mind. It wasn’t like he’d really _done_ very much, just walked to a place he’d already been heading to anyway.

With all his errands now complete, and the sky above almost completely black, Zavahier knew he would be going nowhere else tonight. Lacking any other options, he sought shelter inside the spaceport, where he could at least avoid the rain. He found his way to the refresher, which was small and cramped; there were no bathing facilities, but he was nevertheless able to clean away some of the layers of mud, then he dried himself off and changed into a clean set of robes. Satisfied that he was as clean and dry as he was going to get, he strolled through the spaceport to look at all the ships, and then made his way to the waiting area.

The large and open space typically used by passengers waiting to board outgoing ships was currently filled with all the people who had been trapped here by the storm and rampaging jungle beasts. They were scattered across the rows of seats, clustered in small groups of friends, colleagues and acquaintances. Zavahier recognised a few faces from the crowd that had seen him confront Darth Skotia. There were no other Sith. But he kept his distance: he didn’t know any of these people, and ultimately, considered himself rather _separate _to the vast majority of Imperial society. Instead he scanned the area for somewhere to settle down where he wouldn’t be intruding on anybody else.

Then he spotted the admiral from earlier; the man had evidently decided _not_ to attempt walking to Kaas City, but was now complaining loudly about how rudely a certain Sith had treated him. Their eyes met, and Zavahier frowned at him.

“I could have just let you wander off into the jungle,” he told the admiral smoothly.

“Well, _I_ appreciated your warning,” said an elderly, frail-looking man in a carrying voice. Zavahier recognised him as one of the men who had been with the admiral in the jungle. He stood and approached Zavahier, offering his hand. “Moff Ammelon.”

“Sith apprentice Ezerdus,” he replied, shaking the man’s hand. At first he was a little taken aback by the man’s friendliness, before realising that it was all just a matter of politics: Ammelon was radiating dislike of the complaining admiral, and was thus making a point of being nice to anybody that the admiral disapproved of. And obviously very few Moffs could go wrong by making respectful overtures to a Sith.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Ammelon said, before gesturing to the group of people he had been sitting with. “Please come and join us. It looks like we’ll all be stuck here a while, so why not enjoy some company?”

Zavahier looked over the group, spotting other faces he’d seen today – either watching as he argued with Skotia or on the road to Kaas City – and he realised they were all older, high-ranking men and women. Yet he didn’t really know how to refuse the invitation, so he nodded and followed Ammelon, taking a seat at the edge of this group of experienced officers. Shâsot lay down at his feet, utterly disinterested in anything but sleeping, and Khem grumbled about having nothing to say to such weak humans, before lumbering off to stand guard over Zavahier from a distance. That was probably for the best, really. Ammelon and his friends were wary of the Dashade, and felt nervous with him looming over them.

Ammelon introduced his colleagues one by one – Colonels Lemmau and Hawnam, General Ludhall, Moff Danchar and Commodore Tesilas – before introducing Zavahier to them.

It was awkward. Technically, Zavahier outranked them all, just because of his status as Sith. That was a little hard to get his head around, because they were all so much older than him. Maybe they expected him to be comfortable around them, just as any other high-ranking citizen of the Empire would be. Another Sith would have had no trouble viewing them as equals at best, or more likely inferiors. Karroh would have been able to handle this just fine. He’d know exactly what to do and say.

But Zavahier had very little experience with interacting with his ‘betters’, people from a higher social class than himself. While it was clearly something he was going to have to learn eventually – especially if he intended to lead the Empire one day – right in this moment, he was overwhelmed by his lack of knowledge. He really had no idea how to talk to people whose life experiences were so different to his own. So he just listened as Ammelon and his friends discussed the situation in the galaxy, absorbing everything they said and trying to learn from it: the simmering conflict with the Republic and the various border skirmishes that resulted; problems with sabotage and rooting out Republic spies amidst the ranks of the military; and the struggles to get things done when resources were limited.

These were all things Zavahier had a passing familiarity with, but from the perspective of being the one sent to fix the problem. He chased down traitors, killed spies, reclaimed stolen intelligence. But he had never given it much thought from the other side; how information had to be gathered and then a course of action chosen, maximising results while minimising losses.

“And it doesn’t help when I get Darth Decimus ordering one thing, and Darth Vengean ordering the opposite,” General Ludhall lamented, before cutting herself off when she realised she’d criticised her Sith masters in the presence of another Sith. She gave Zavahier an anxious look.

But Zavahier just shrugged. “Don’t mind me. I don’t like other Sith any more than you do,” he said. “I just ignore them and do what _I _think is right, and kill anybody who disagrees. But I suppose that’s not really an option for you, is it?”

Hmmm…

It was an interesting conundrum, wasn’t it?

He’d been enjoying his freedom so much, including defying anyone who looked down on him – just as a matter of principle, really – that he hadn’t taken the time to appreciate just _how_ free he was. The only people who had any authority over him were higher ranking Sith… and if he didn’t like their orders, he would simply do as he willed regardless. And plot to kill whoever was trying to order him around. But these officers, though born with their freedom and holding high positions within the Empire, were still ultimately slaves to the whims of the Sith.

“Yes, sadly we don’t have the option of simply killing anybody who disagrees with us,” Colonel Lemmau remarked, regarding Zavahier with faint amusement and curiosity. “So, Sith, if killing someone isn’t an option, what would you do then?”

Zavahier felt the attention of the whole group on him, which was almost enough to make him shy away from answering. For most of his life, being the centre of attention had never been a _good_ thing, and his first instinctive reaction was one of fear. But that wasn’t something he should shy away from. Instead, he chose to have fun with it, to enjoy the discomfort of the situation, and use it to gain a measure of the people around him.

“Manipulate them. Make them think doing things my way is _their_ idea,” Zavahier replied, thinking this to be the easiest solution. If Ludhall was receiving conflicting orders from two sources, then convincing one of the Darths to change their mind was the only way forward.

Lemmau chuckled. “And at the same time, they’re trying to manipulate _you_ into agreeing with them, while being completely aware of your attempts to manipulate them. You’re new at this, aren’t you?” he asked, though it wasn’t so much a criticism as a simple statement of fact, tinged with a hint of good humour and… something else.

Ah, that was it.

These older officers thought him _naïve_. Only a child in their eyes, really. A child with a vast amount of power and authority at his disposal.

Maybe he was. Zavahier was already abundantly aware of the fact that there was still a _lot _he didn’t know about his new life.

And he sensed that Lemmau and the others were testing him; they didn’t really expect him to have all the answers, but they were interested in seeing how he responded. So he offered them an answer that was truthful… but also purposely simplistic, even innocent. They saw him as young and inexperienced, so he would play the part.

“I don’t know,” Zavahier said. “Play along with what they want, I suppose. Let them think they’ve beaten me, until I can go behind their backs and do what _I_ want. Maybe stab them in the back when I have the chance. Or not, if it’s better to wait until they’re _really_ not expecting it. Or until I can make it look like somebody else’s fault. The Republic would make a good scapegoat, I think…”

“And there you have it. Sith psychology at its finest,” Moff Danchar said with a laugh, though there was some genuine warmth in his words as well. “It’ll be interesting to see how far you go through the ranks.”

“All the way to the top, of course,” Zavahier said, unable to resist a smile. “I’m going to be on the Dark Council within a year.”

“You know, somehow I believe you,” Ammelon said. “You’ve got that determined glint in your eye, like some of my ambitious young officers.”

Zavahier felt as though he’d passed the test. Not the kind of test that Harkun had administered, intended to kill him, but the kind he was _meant_ to pass. Of course, he was deliberately playing along with their perception of him, making himself out to be more naïve than he really was because that was what they wanted to see. But that suited his plans. Zavahier _wanted_ military officers to like him. Other Sith looked down on him, or were even openly hostile towards him. But non-Sith… it was so easy to get them to trust him. All he had to do was be different. Be sufficiently unlike other Sith that nobody knew what to expect of him.

The conversation moved on, delving deeper into the politics of the Empire and the Sith; there was the definite feeling of acceptance as the officers discussed matters more openly, no longer worrying about holding their tongues around him. At least, not quite so much. They didn’t outright _say _it, but their frustrations with the Sith Order were still plain to see. Just as Karroh had remarked not long ago, infighting between individual Sith affected the whole Empire.

How many resources were wasted in the course of those rivalries? Resources that could be better put to use destroying the Republic.

But why?

Zavahier pondered this question for a while, until a possible answer began to form.

“You all fought in the last war, didn’t you?” Zavahier asked when there was a pause in the discussion of politics. He received affirmative answers from all of them, so he continued with his next question. “Was there as much infighting then? Between the Sith, I mean?”

“There’s always been some. But it _has_ just gotten worse since the Treaty of Coruscant was signed, yeah,” Commodore Tesilas said. “Why do you ask?”

“It’s complicated,” Zavahier said. “Part of it is boredom, maybe. I know how _I_ feel when I don’t have anything to do with my time. If I’d spent years hunting Jedi, and then had to stop because of the treaty… Well, sitting around playing Pazaak wouldn’t hold my interest very long.”

Ammelon nodded in understanding. “Makes sense. After the Treaty of Coruscant was signed, a lot of the younger men got bored of routine patrols and guard duty. Now we have war games to keep everyone occupied. And preparing for the next war, of course.”

“That’s what the Sith should be doing too, instead of constantly murdering each other over the tiniest insults,” Colonel Hawnam said. He had been quiet through most of the conversations throughout the evening, speaking up only when he had something significant to add.

It reminded Zavahier a little of what Karroh had said once, actually: that there was too much infighting amongst the Sith, which was ultimately rather destructive. He’d said it right after Zavahier had killed two fellow acolytes.

After they had betrayed Zavahier first, acting on orders from Harkun.

So, really, what choice had he had?

“It’s not that simple. Every Sith has a different idea of what it means to _be_ Sith,” Zavahier said slowly. “We’re expected to work out for ourselves what the Sith Code really means. Which means we end up disagreeing on who is _really_ Sith. Darth Skotia thinks I’m not worthy of being Sith because I used to be a slave. Actually, _most _Sith think that. And there’s no middle ground there. No compromises to be made. They want to kill me because they don’t think I belong in the Order. So if I’m going to survive, I have to kill _them_.”

Zavahier was silent for a moment, letting that sink in, before adding, “But I’d _rather _be hunting Jedi. I killed my first one yesterday, and I _almost_ got Satele Shan angry.” A slight exaggeration there. “That feels like a better use of my time than killing Skotia before he kills me.”

There had been times in the past when Zavahier had wanted to conceal his origins as a slave. But he was coming to realise that the rest of the Empire was never going to let him forget it, so he might as well _own_ it. It didn’t mean he would let anybody look down on him because of it, but he also wouldn’t lie about it. He wouldn’t hide it for the sake of making others comfortable, not when he could be open about what he was and where he’d come from. The most powerful Sith in the Empire, its future leader, had spent most of his life as property.

The group of officers seemed to consider his words for a few moments, looking Zavahier up and down, asking themselves whether he would have sought conflict with Darth Skotia if the man hadn’t initiated the confrontation first. Zavahier certainly managed to make it sound reasonable, the idea that Sith rivalries formed from insurmountable differences in opinion, over which there could be no compromise. So they really had no choice but to agree with him, each of them nodding slowly.

And yet…

“And this is how the Empire will end up tearing itself apart,” General Ludhall said cynically.

“We already knew most of this, of course,” Lemmau pointed out. “You don’t spend decades serving the Empire without learning a thing or two. It’s just fascinating hearing it from a Sith’s perspective, don’t you think? Would you change it if you could?”

“Yes,” Zavahier said firmly and without hesitation. “And I intend to.”

It _was_ the truth, of course. He wanted to make the Empire a better place, make it strong enough to finally wipe the Republic from the face of the galaxy. And if he had to kill every last Sith to do it, then he would.

But he had to admit, if only to himself, that he didn’t yet know how he was going to accomplish all this. He didn’t know enough about how the Empire functioned. He’d listened to these officers talking, and while there were parts he _had _understood, a lot of the intricacies were still beyond him. He would have to learn if he wanted to succeed.

A young woman – Kenyard, the one who’d laughed at Zavahier earlier – approached them, bobbing her head respectfully. “I’m sorry to interrupt, sirs, but Commander Rilan asked me to inform you all that he’s organised quarters for the night. It’s only several of the barracks tents, but it’ll be more comfortable than sleeping on these chairs. The Commander has also offered his personal tent for…”

She hesitated, looking from Ammelon to Danchar to Zavahier, uncertain whether a young Sith apprentice _truly_ outranked the much older Moffs.

“I’ll be fine in the barracks,” Zavahier said, relinquishing any claim to the Commander’s quarters without protest. He’d been making an effort to show that he wasn’t like other Sith, and this was one small thing he could do to prove it. He was the youngest person here, and needed comfortable quarters less than the elderly and frail looking Ammelon. He wasn’t accustomed to luxury regardless – even if he was coming to rather enjoy it – and he suspected the soldiers’ barracks would be no worse than the barracks at the Academy. Given he’d been fully intending on sleeping here in the spaceport, having access to an actual bed was certainly a pleasant surprise.

“So will I,” Moff Danchar said, after exchanging a look with Ammelon. Perhaps the latter had some kind of seniority. Or maybe it was simply the fact that Ammelon was at least twenty years older than Danchar, and was quite obviously physically delicate.

“Thank you both,” Ammelon said, bowing his head briefly.

“I’ll let the Commander know,” Kenyard said, before looking at Zavahier again, apparently noting the fact that he had done his best to clean himself up, but was still somewhat muddy. “We also have a sonic shower, if you’d like to use it, my lord.”

“Oh, that would be great. You’re very kind,” Zavahier replied, smiling at Kenyard as he stood up. She really was quite pretty, and he wasn’t sure how else to tell her he liked her than by complimenting her. It was a bit of a gamble – he’d never done anything like this before! – but he just went for it, trying not to think too much about the possibility of rejection. He did at least feel a _little _more sure of himself than he had in Dreshdae’s cantina. It helped that Karroh wasn’t here to see him fail.

“It’s quite alright,” Kenyard said, shyly returning his smile. “I’m Esaya, by the way.”

“Ezerdus,” he replied. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too. But I… uh… I have to let everyone else know about their quarters,” Esaya said uncertainly. “I’ll… uh… see you around, my lord.”

She hurried off to start passing the good news around the other people gathered in the spaceport’s waiting area. Zavahier watched her go, feeling that as attempts at flirtation went, he had been at least mildly successful. He sensed a ripple of amusement passing through Ammelon and the others, as if they found his attempts to talk to Esaya entertaining. But he didn’t care. He was Sith! He could do whatever he liked!


	12. The Road To Civilisation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier begins the journey to Kaas City.

The soldiers’ barracks were in fact a row of large tents in a clearing a short distance from the spaceport. Each one had sixteen bunks lined up within, making for rather crowded quarters. Of course, Zavahier had no difficulty claiming a whole corner for himself, Khem and Shâsot, and nor did he have any trouble putting himself in the front of the queue to use the sonic shower. He didn’t even have to threaten to hurt or kill anybody; he was Sith, and everyone else just assumed that he was in charge, making way for him with respectful nods.

But once he went to bed, he couldn’t really get settled. He lay on his back staring up at the top of the tent, with Shâsot curled up beside him, the Tuk’ata’s head resting on his chest, while Zavahier idly stroked his mane. The storm outside was still raging. Regular flashes of lightning were still visible through the tent’s canvas, but far more distracting was the noise; the sound of the wind flapping the edges of the tent; the constant patter of rain; the rolls of thunder; the occasional roar of a distant monster. And the person on the next bunk was snoring loudly.

Zavahier was too energised and restless to be able to sleep, as well. He was far too aware of the power in the storm, and of Dromund Kaas’ dark presence in the Force. He didn’t want to lie still. He didn’t want to sleep. With a grunt, he rolled onto his side, prompting an irritable growl from Shâsot as the Tuk’ata pressed against his back. Instead of sleeping, Zavahier tried to meditate, initially focusing on shoring up his mental defences – he was prone to talking in his sleep, and such meditation helped to keep his secrets safely stored in his mind – and then stretching out his senses into the world around him. The sounds of the storm faded away, to be replaced by the song of the Force itself. He sensed the movements of the beasts in the jungle, and felt the pulse of dark energy that enveloped the whole planet.

Beneath it was… something else, something cold and dead. He brushed against it for a brief moment, then recoiled from it, disliking that chill creeping into his mind. And yet… it fascinated him too, as though he was gazing into a mirror.

No, not quite. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t his own reflection.

What was it, then?

And why did it make him feel so…

Zavahier took a few deep breaths to steady himself, and rolled over onto his other side, draping his arm over Shâsot’s back. The Tuk’ata’s body was warm and vaguely reassuring after that brief contact with something so bitterly cold. Yet the darkness was still waiting for him when he drifted to sleep more than an hour later, his dreams were filled with dark tombs and rage and anger and hate… but now tinged with something new.

Anticipation.

When Zavahier woke the next morning, he still recalled the eerily cold presence lurking in the heart of Dromund Kaas, shivering involuntarily at the thought of it. But he was left with no clue what it was. Admittedly, he was getting used to having strange dreams that unsettled him and defied understanding. Dark tombs and even darker presences. He had them so often now that he was sure they meant _something_, and even though common sense said they were nothing but dreams… he wasn’t so sure of that. It was always the same place, that same dark tomb, filled with the same emotions. That same feeling of familiarity, even though he knew he’d never been anywhere like it before. Now it felt like something was approaching. Something was going to happen.

Lacking any answer for exactly _what _was coming, Zavahier pushed his unsettling dreams aside and got up. He was one of the first to wake, which didn’t surprise him. He’d been so restless since reaching Dromund Kaas that he was surprised he’d been able to sleep at all. Now he was eager to get going. He fully intended to reach Kaas City today, and he rather imagined that Lord Zash was getting impatient for him to arrive. When he’d left Korriban almost three days ago, he really hadn’t been expecting it to take _this_ long to get to the Citadel.

And there was still a fifteen kilometre journey to make before he even reached the city. So it was best to start early, wasn’t it? At least the storm seemed to have subsided, though it was still raining lightly. Maybe it always rained on Dromund Kaas.

Zavahier followed the path out of the soldiers’ camp, with Khem following a short distance behind him and Shâsot trotting by his side. There were a few other people coming and going now; both soldiers going about their duties – including a large group preparing to head out into the jungle – as well as the various people who’d been trapped at the spaceport by the storm, who were now getting ready to make their way to Kaas City.

Commander Rilan was, once again, standing near the speeder pad, and he was refusing to allow anybody to use any of the speeders parked there. A small crowd of people had formed by the platform, and as Zavahier approached, he heard the Commander say: “The jungle beasts were attacking people on speeders yesterday, so you’re all just going to have to wait until the clean-up squads have dealt with them.”

Zavahier thought for a moment, considering his options. And then decided that _one_ more delay wasn’t really going to make much of a difference at this point. “I’m headed to Kaas City on foot. I’ll be happy to kill any monsters I encounter on the way,” he offered. He would at least still be headed in the right direction, after all, and the jungle beasts were pretty much guaranteed to attack him anyway – because that really _was_ what his life was like now – so he might as well earn the credit for killing them.

“Much appreciated, my lord. That will make things easier for the clean-up squads,” Rilan said. “There is an outpost about halfway to Kaas City – if you can clear a path to that point, the rest of the route to the city should be safe. The clean-up squads will follow a short way behind you, and once they give the all clear, _then_ we can authorise the use of the speeders.”

This last part was directed as much towards the gathered crowd as it was to Zavahier, making the point that progress was being made and they would be allowed to travel once the dangerous jungle beasts had been dealt with. It certainly brought a halt to _most_ of the complaining, though the admiral from the previous afternoon seemed inclined to be sulky about it. Zavahier had to admit, if only to himself, that if he had been forced to wait until the soldiers were finished killing the monsters, he would have gotten bored exceptionally quickly. His journey to Dromund Kaas had already included far too much waiting for his tastes.

But he was in the fortunate position of being Sith: if he wanted to brave the wilderness on his own, then he could do so. The fact that it benefited the Empire’s citizens in the process was simply an added bonus. A way of showing that he would be a worthy leader.

So he walked past the gathered crowd, radiating self-assurance and power, and allowing them to briefly bask in his dark presence before he went on his way. Their journey to Kaas City was being hastened due to _his_ actions, and he rather liked the fact that they all knew it. He didn’t need to boast or draw attention to it. He just needed to walk down the path towards the guard post, confidently heading towards danger as though he had nothing to fear. He just needed to _be._

Beyond the guard post that blocked the road, the path that wound through the jungles of Dromund Kaas… was actually not as wild as Zavahier had been expecting. Many of the trees had been cut back to create a broad passage, clearly with speeders in mind. Nobody wanted to crash into a tree at high speed. It wouldn’t have been necessary if the spaceport had been built closer to the city in the first place, of course.

Closer to the ground, however, the road was a mess of mud, puddles and creeping undergrowth. There were signs of others having passed this way, in the form of broken twigs and heavy boot prints through the mud; most likely people who had tried to reach Kaas City on foot. He didn’t see many footprints going back the other way, though. Either they made it safely to the outpost, or they had been eaten. The latter seemed more likely, based on his experiences with the jungle beasts so far.

On either side of the road, through the trees, Zavahier could make out high cliffs of dark grey stone, forming a deep canyon running south west from the spaceport. In the distance to the north west were the highest towers of what he assumed to be Kaas City, only barely visible over the top of the cliffs. They were a long way off.

Well, there was nothing he could do about that except press onwards, doing the work that was needed. Other people would have an easier journey thanks to him. Now he was actually out in the wilderness, dragging himself through the undergrowth and splashing through puddles it wasn’t hard to feel a little resentful of that. Of course, he liked the idea that all those people would be in his debt. But working hard so that others would have an easier life was… well, it reminded him too much of slavery. At least he had _volunteered_ for this. Nobody had ordered him to do anything. That made enough of a difference that he could still find ways to enjoy this journey.

Killing jungle beasts, for example. Zavahier, Khem and Shâsot weren’t far beyond the guard post when the first Gundark lumbered into the path and swung its fist at Khem. The Dashade drew his vibrosword and started slashing at the monster. Annoyed that it had chosen to attack Khem and not him, Zavahier gathered a ball of lightning in his hands and pushed it towards the Gundark, purposely aiming for its head and those utterly ridiculous oversized ears. He followed it up almost immediately with a violent push with the Force, attempting to knock the beast down so Khem could stab it to death.

It was partially effective. The beast stumbled, now quite confused, as though it didn’t really understand what had happened to it. It pulled itself upright again, and turned towards Zavahier. He struck it in the face with a bolt of lightning. It raised its hands to clutch at its burned nose, snarling in pain. But turning away from Khem was a mistake: the Dashade stabbed it in the back, and it fell forwards, almost collapsing on top of Zavahier, who darted out of the way just in time.

“Nice to see the monsters are still in such a good mood,” Zavahier remarked, prodding at the dead Gundark with his boot. It really begged the question of how useful his repairs to the landing beacons had actually been, if the jungle predators were still this aggressive.

He moved on, with Shâsot ranging a short way ahead. The Tuk’ata paused every now and then to sniff an interesting orb of glowing fungus or urinate against a tree, very much enjoying this excursion. Zavahier supposed Shâsot hadn’t liked being kept in a cage at the Sith Academy any more than Zavahier had liked his owner’s slave pens, and he resolved to never cage Shâsot again. Originally Harkun had ordered Zavahier to get rid of Shâsot, making it necessary to keep the Tuk’ata hidden. Now there was no need.

At one point Shâsot even broke into a run, tearing after a small animal with a long fluffy tail. The animal scampered up a tree, and Shâsot made an impressive leap upwards, clawing at the bark in an attempt to pursue his prey. But the animal was well out of reach, chittering in alarm. Shâsot leaped again, leaving deep gouges in the tree, and eventually scrambled up into the branches. His jaws snapped closed on the little animal, with the audible sound of cracking bones.

“Nicely done,” Zavahier said.

Shâsot jumped back down to the ground, his prey held firmly in his jaws. The animal’s tail dangled out of the Tuk’ata’s mouth. Shâsot threw his head back and chewed the little creature, before swallowing it. And then he coughed, throwing up the fluffy tail, and trying to spit out a handful of long hairs that had gotten stuck to his tongue.

Over the next few kilometres, Zavahier and Khem, often with the assistance of Shâsot, killed a large number of Gundarks, Vine Cats and those strange green creatures which they had learned from the spaceport computers were called Yozusks. None of these battles in themselves were particularly challenging, not now that Zavahier had become familiar with the way they fought. Beasts were always easier to predict than sentient beings. But taken as a whole, fighting his way through the jungle was proving to be hard work. This seemed to only emphasise just how foolish it had been to build the spaceport so far from the city, though Zavahier also realised it wouldn’t seem so bad to someone travelling by speeder. They would simply fly overhead, enjoying the scenery and never realising just how dangerous the jungle below really was.

The interesting thing, really, was that the further he travelled, the more obvious it became that he was _not_ the only hunter out here. He found dead monsters that he knew for certain had not been killed by him; their hides were pockmarked from blaster fire, limbs dismembered by direct missile strikes, and one especially large Yozusk appeared to have been set on fire in defiance of the general state of wetness of the surrounding jungle. The level of destruction was impressive, and if not for the nature of the damage, he would have assumed there was another enthusiastic Sith out here with him. But these beasts had been killed with conventional weapons, not lightsabres and the raw power of the Force. Yet the degree of violence seemed inconsistent with soldiers merely doing their duty.

It did not remain a mystery for long; as the road passed between two old, knotted trees, Zavahier sensed danger, and quickly ducked behind the tree to his left, avoiding the rain of blaster fire. Shâsot wasn’t so lucky, yelping loudly as he was struck by the bolts of plasma.

Angered by the attack on his pet, Zavahier raised a protective bubble around himself, activated his lightsabre, and stepped out from behind the tree, intent on rescuing Shâsot. He clumsily deflected the blaster fire that came in his direction, individual bolts pinging away in a variety of directions. Zavahier’s eyes sought out his enemies, and he quickly spotted two men in heavy armour. It wasn’t the armour typically used by the Imperial military, but rather appeared to be pieced together out of individual components selected for their durability and then painted in bright colours – one man’s armour was a brilliant shade of cobalt blue, and the other wore deep green – rather than to create a consistent uniform. Likewise, they wielded a variety of weapons, from small blaster pistols to…

A small, wrist-mounted missile launcher, which was fired directly at Shâsot.

Zavahier sprang forward with the aid of the Force, and pushed the Tuk’ata out of the path of the missile, which struck the ground and detonated.

“Hey! That’s our kill!” one of the armoured men shouted. “Get your own monsters, Sith.”

“No, that’s my _pet_, you idiot,” Zavahier snapped back. “Does he _look_ like a Gundark to you?”

He didn’t wait for the man to respond, however, and struck him with a bolt of lightning. These two men were clearly not Imperial military. Their armour was wrong, their weapons were wrong, and their accents were wrong. That meant they were enemies. Even more so because they had hurt Shâsot. He deactivated his lightsabre to free up his other hand, using it to deliver a more substantial stream of lightning, intent on causing pain rather than outright death. Oh, they would both die, but only once he’d shown them what a terrible mistake they’d made in attacking _his_ monster.

The man cried out, writhing in pain as Zavahier’s purple lightning wrapped around him. “I didn’t know! It was a mistake!” He screamed again as the lightning tore across his body.

“Really, it was!” the man’s companion said. “We thought it was one of the jungle predators.”

Well, they weren’t going to make that mistake a second time, were they? Zavahier didn’t feel at all inclined to be merciful. Their excuses just angered him further. After all, it wasn’t just Shâsot they’d shot at, but him and Khem as well. They had, as far as he could tell, simply opened fire on anything that moved, without even checking to see what they were attacking. And if they couldn’t even _apologise_ and beg for mercy, what reason did he have to let them live?

He intensified and broadened his lightning, encompassing both men, forcing them to scream in agony. He didn’t need to say anything. He was quite capable of making his displeasure known through his powers alone. Their screams filled the air, impressively audible over the crackling thunder of Zavahier’s lightning.

The noise was evidently enough to attract attention, first from a pair of Vine Cats, which were shot dead by the next arrivals, six more men in that same style of armour. All of them took in the situation, and then aimed their weapons at Zavahier. One of them, wearing sleek, reflective silver armour, called out in a loud voice, “What’s going on here?”

“What does it look like?” Zavahier snarled at the man, not in the least bit intimidated by the fact that he now had eight enemies to deal with rather than two. He didn’t even stop torturing them. He would stop ravaging them with his lightning only when he got bored of hurting them and ended their miserable lives.

“Is there a reason _why_ you’re torturing my men, Sith?” the leader asked.

“They shot my Tuk’ata,” Zavahier replied. Shâsot had come limping over to him, and was now pressed against his side. His long tail was wrapped around Zavahier’s legs, and he was growling at the two men.

“Ah,” the leader said.

There was a few moments of unease as the leader fell into silence, punctuated only with the continued crackling of lightning and the screams of Zavahier’s victims. He sensed the leader was conflicted; pride prevented him from begging for his men’s lives, but nor did he enjoy seeing them tortured by a Sith. Ordering all his men to open fire on Zavahier was certainly an option too, yet he hesitated.

Zavahier chose to force the issue. He let his lightning dissipate briefly. His victims groaned and began to climb to their feet, while Zavahier gathered a ball of lightning in his hands, making a show of drawing on as much power as possible. And then he prepared to hurl it at the two men.

“Wait!” the leader called out, just a fraction of a second before Zavahier unleashed his ball of lightning on the two men.

Without releasing the lightning, nor discharging it into the air, Zavahier regarded the leader. “Yes? Did you have something you wanted to say?”

“Don’t kill my men,” the leader said.

“Why shouldn’t I?” Zavahier asked, rather enjoying himself now that he knew he had them all exactly where he wanted them. He was in complete control here; they would live or die solely by his whims, and they all knew it.

“They made a mistake, and they’re sorry,” the leader said, and the two men Zavahier had tortured franticly nodded their agreement.

“They don’t look very sorry,” Zavahier said, and he again prepared to throw the ball of lightning at them.

“We’re sorry! We’re really, _really_ sorry!” the one with the missile launcher called out.

“We really are! Um… my lord?” the second one added.

“Our medic will treat your pet’s wounds,” the leader offered quickly, and when he realised that this might not actually be enough, he added, “And… I’ll pay for any further medical care it needs?”

Zavahier looked over at Khem. The lightning collected in his hands was beginning to hurt, yet he held onto it. “What do you think? Do you think they’ve learned to respect the Sith?”

“I believe they have,” Khem replied, though he was watching Zavahier closely, his expression impassive, waiting to see what he would do.

Well, there really was only one option, wasn’t there?

Zavahier blasted the two men with all the power he’d gathered in his hands; the crack of thunder echoed across the whole canyon, and errant sparks of lightning struck the ground where the two men stood. Both of them screamed, before collapsing, instantly killed by the force of the blast. The other armoured men readied their weapons, and without hesitation, Zavahier reached out and lifted two of them into the air, smashing their bodies together as easily as two pebbles, before tossing them aside.

The others, including the leader, immediately opened fire. Zavahier created a protective bubble around Shâsot, keeping the Tuk’ata safe from any further harm, and then sprinted towards the closest of his opponents, drawing and igniting his lightsabre once again. The man dropped his blaster and drew his vibrosword, engaging Zavahier in a duel.

It didn’t last long. Zavahier could see each of the men’s attacks before they happened, and parried them with ease. His own movements were swift as he danced around the man – who was much slower than Zavahier due to his heavy armour – looking for an opening. He stepped to the side, then jabbed his opponent in the chest. His lightsabre, perhaps quite predictably, didn’t penetrate the heavy metal plating protecting the man, who instantly sensed weakness and pressed his attacks. He closed in on Zavahier, trying to crowd him and overwhelm him with pure strength.

Zavahier leaped backwards, then feinted to the right. The man lunged at where he thought Zavahier would be, only to find he had darted to the left instead. He poked the man again, this time driving his lightsabre deep into the place where the pauldrons of his armour met the plates protecting his right arm.

Finally, he grabbed the man with the Force, pulling him sideways and using him as a shield to absorb the rain of blaster fire that came from the men’s shiny-armoured leader.

Khem had charged into battle too, easily cutting down two men with powerful sweeps of his vibrosword, and growling in pleasure as he absorbed a small amount of their life essences. Surely not as delicious as devouring a Force-user, but better than the beasts they had been fighting up until now.

That left only the leader. And Zavahier had special plans for him. With a snarled word of Ancient Sith – “_Mergijakzaevas_!” – he sent a blast of dark energy that tore open the leader’s armour, creating an opening through which he could send a painful jolt of lightning. Then he ripped the man’s flamethrower out of his hands and threw it into a nearby puddle, before striking him with a second, more powerful bolt of lightning, intent on causing as much pain as possible while overwhelming the man’s nervous system.

And then Zavahier lifted the man into the air, letting him dangle helplessly as he carried him towards the now nearby outpost. Shâsot stayed close by his side, limping and whimpering miserably.

It was time to make a point.

To teach these hunters who this planet _really_ belonged to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late posting of this chapter. You guys would not believe the week I've had...


	13. Dominance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dominating others is an integral part of being Sith. Kind of fun, too.

The outpost was a small area contained between two high metal walls that stretched across a place where the canyon walls were close together. It was an obvious defensive point, and once the gates were closed, Zavahier thought it must be virtually impregnable. But currently both pairs of gates were open, so he walked into the outpost, still dragging his captive in the air above him. The moment he stepped into the outpost, feeling metal beneath his feet rather than mud and grass, he dropped the man onto the floor in front of him. The man tried to get up, but Zavahier pushed him down again, using his strength in the Force alone. Pinning someone down with his boot was beneath him, especially when using the Force to achieve the same effect was a much more obvious display of his power.

And it certainly caught attention. A man – thankfully an Imperial officer – hurried towards him, followed by a blue Twi’lek in silver and purple armour.

“What—what’s going on here?” the officer asked him.

“That’s Avots Chuat,” the Twi’lek said, speaking in his native language. His tone was one of surprise, as if the name was supposed to actually mean anything to anyone else. But there was more than a few other people watching from a distance, both Imperial soldiers and what appeared to be other members of this group of armoured idiots, and at least _some _of them seemed to recognise the name.

“This Sith – he attacked us,” Avots Chuat said, struggling to rise despite the weight of the Force holding him down.

“Shut up!” Zavahier snarled, pressing Chuat harder into the floor. “His men attacked my Tuk’ata. I was not in a forgiving mood.”

“I see. Well… um…” the officer said, looking a little uncertain. “The Mandalorians are our allies, of course, but…”

Oh, so _that_ was who they were? Zavahier only knew a little about the Mandalorians, and only by reputation: they were a group of loosely affiliated clans of mercenaries who currently worked with the Empire. In some ways, they had some qualities that, as a Sith, he could appreciate: they enjoyed challenging themselves, and would pit themselves against tough opponents just to test their strength. Yet in other ways, they were utterly contemptible… such as their inability to fully submit to the Sith. Well, to _him_, really. Whether they respected other Sith or not was utterly meaningless at this point. What mattered right now was that he made his own power and authority clear.

“If they’re truly our allies, they wouldn’t be so monumentally stupid as to attack a Sith,” Zavahier snarled. He was perfectly within his rights to kill anybody who attacked him – or anything he cared about. Shâsot was hurt, and vengeance was completely justified.

“It was a mistake,” Chuat said, grunting in discomfort. “They apologised.”

“Only after I forced them to,” Zavahier argued.

“Alright, alright,” the Imperial officer said, now desperately looking for a means of defusing the situation. As if Zavahier could simply be _persuaded_ to not viciously murder Chuat in front of all his mercenary friends! “My lord, you have every right to be angry. But the Empire needs the Mandalorians, and Avots Chuat is highly respected—”

“So?” Zavahier asked. “Am I supposed to care?”

The Twi’lek chose this moment to speak up. “Greetings, my lord. I’m Vort Norman, and perhaps I can… help… a little..?” he began, but trailed into an uneasy silence when Zavahier glared at him, the air around him crackling with impatient sparks of lightning. But Norman quickly recovered himself, and ploughed on. “The Mandalorians fight for honour, and to gain strength. If you kill him, then all the other members of clan Chuat will likely seek revenge.”

“Let them try!”

“Of course, my lord, but if I may explain… there’s much greater dishonour in losing than there is in dying,” Norman explained. “Why, the humiliation alone...”

Zavahier gave this a few moments of consideration, tilting his head slightly and making a show of thinking it over. He could sense when someone was attempting to manipulate him, but ultimately he didn’t really know enough about the Mandalorians to determine how much truth there was in Norman’s words. Would Chuat _really_ face dishonour and humiliation for failing to overpower a Sith? Or was that just something the Twi’lek was saying in an attempt to convince Zavahier to be merciful? He fixed his gaze on Vort Norman, pushing into the Twi’lek’s thoughts and scrutinising him closely, searching for any dishonesty. But he could sense none. The man was telling the truth that Chuat faced certain disgrace in the eyes of his fellow Mandalorians.

So Zavahier decided on a response. He gave Chuat one last shock with his lightning, inflicting that final moment of pain, before releasing him. “Fine. I’m done,” he said. “But he’s still paying for the medical care Shâsot needs.”

“O-of course, my lord,” Chuat said as he slowly climbed to his feet, having apparently learned his lesson. He hobbled away, going only a couple of steps before needing help from Norman just to stay upright, and the Twi’lek moved to support Chuat’s weight.

But Zavahier was satisfied with his display of dominance over the Mandalorians, and definitely enjoying Avots Chuat’s submission to his will. The fact that it had taken place in front of a small audience was also rather gratifying, playing into the reputation that he wished to establish for himself. Those who obeyed would be treated well, those who were loyal to him would be protected, and those who submitted would be shown mercy if it suited him to do so. Everybody else would be killed.

The Imperial officer looked distinctly relieved that the situation had been resolved without _too_ much violence. “I’m sure your mercy will be appreciated, my lord.”

“I doubt it,” Zavahier said savagely.

“Right, of course…” the officer replied uncertainly, before moving on in an attempt to further distract Zavahier’s smouldering rage. “I’m Captain Banwel, and this is Outpost Tempest. Is there anything we can do for you, my lord?”

“Get someone to look at Shâsot’s wounds. And send word to Commander Rilan at the spaceport. I’ve killed most of the jungle beasts, and his soldiers should be able to handle the rest. Then it should be safe for people to start using the speeders again,” Zavahier said, quickly updating Banwel on the situation… and providing a confusingly stark contrast with his previous behaviour; now Banwel didn’t know whether to be terrified of Zavahier’s capacity for fury and cruelty, or reassured by the fact that he’d also been helping to keep the Empire’s people safe from being eaten by monsters.

Zavahier _loved_ it when people didn’t know what to make of him.

“Of course, my lord,” Banwel said, hurrying away and looking thoroughly grateful just to be escaping with his life, even though he hadn’t done anything to earn Zavahier’s wrath.

A few minutes later, Outpost Tempest’s medic approached him, moving cautiously. “Captain Banwel mentioned you have a… ah… a Tuk’ata, is it?” he asked, looking down at the beast sitting at Zavahier’s side. “And he’s been injured?”

“Yes. Those idiot Mandalorians shot him,” Zavahier said, indicating the burned wounds on Shâsot’s left shoulder, flank and hip. All things considered, it was actually quite remarkable that Shâsot had survived, when another beast of the same size would have likely been killed. But he was a _mutant_ Tuk’ata, with a tough hide that could even resist the Force. That Shâsot had also survived the Mandalorians’ attack was further proof of how valuable an asset he was.

The medic crouched down to look more closely at Shâsot’s injuries, only to fall back onto his rear when the Tuk’ata snarled and snapped his teeth at him.

“Shâsot, still,” Zavahier ordered, also crouching down and burying his hand in Shâsot’s white mane. He gently stroked the Tuk’ata’s head, soothing him with both the touch of his hand and a little pressure through the Force. And then he spoke softly in Ancient Sith, reassuring Shâsot without letting the medic know exactly what was said. “Be still now. It’s alright. You’re safe. Be still.”

Shâsot stilled, and allowed the medic to apply kolto and bandages to his injuries. Once he was done, the medic stood and backed away several paces. “You should take him to a beastmaster in Kaas City, someone more familiar with Tuk’ata biology,” he recommended.

Zavahier nodded, accepting the suggestion. He stroked Shâsot’s head once more, looking at the Tuk’ata with genuine concern, and a degree of softness that he reserved solely for him. “Can you walk, Shâsot?”

The Tuk’ata stood, testing the strength of both his left legs, and then moved to follow Zavahier. He was very slow, however, visibly wincing whenever he had to put weight on his injured legs. Khem gave an impatient grunt, and stepped forward, picking up Shâsot and slinging him across his shoulders, prompting a snarl of protest. Zavahier just looked at them both, finding the irritation and impatience from Khem and the anger from Shâsot to be faintly amusing. Yet he resisted the temptation to laugh, and instead settled on saying, “Right, onwards to Kaas City.”

Zavahier walked through the centre of the outpost, heading towards the west gates. He passed Banwel, and took note of the fact that the captain was in a holocall with Commander Rilan, reporting on the situation. The _whole_ situation, including the incident with the Mandalorians, and not just the deaths of the monsters. Fine. Let Banwel spread word of his deeds. It served only to strengthen Zavahier’s reputation still further.

Beyond the gates, the wilderness of Dromund Kaas started to look distinctly less wild. There were fewer trees, giving Zavahier a clearer view of the lands to the west, where sharp mountains rose out of the jungle, half shrouded in mist. There was a tall tower some distance away too, and as he watched, a bolt of lightning struck the very tip of it, before fading away. And as he continued onwards, the valley opened up still further, and he found himself on what was, without a doubt, a well-used thoroughfare. A speeder came flying from the north, soaring over his head and disappearing into what looked like another outpost to the south.

Zavahier consulted his map, though he was already fairly certain of where he needed to go. He followed the road north, until the forest became thicker, closing in around him once again; he heard the occasional speeder flying overhead, but they stayed above the trees, and he could see almost nothing of them. But their presence alone told him he was going the right way, even as the path weaved back and forth over the uneven terrain.

And then, finally, the path veered towards the west and left the jungle. What had originally been the rock wall of the canyon was now a different kind of wall, built to defend the capital city of the Sith Empire. It rose high above him, an impenetrable barrier of stone and metal, a monument to Imperial strength and determination. Awed by the walls of Kaas City, Zavahier continued west along the base of the wall, until he reached the city gates. At present, they stood open, allowing people to enter the city, but the sheer scale of them promised to keep the Empire’s citizens safe in the event of an attack.

Yes, Zavahier was impressed. Veah, the capital of Caekarro, the city he’d lived in before he was freed from slavery, was a hovel compared to this. And just as Grand Moff Kilran had said, Kaas City truly was inspiring.

“So much has changed since I was last on this world,” Khem remarked as they walked through the gates, entering Kaas City at last. “This bastion of the Sith is glorious.”

Zavahier had never heard such high praise from the Dashade before, and he found himself nodding in agreement, though he didn’t say anything. He was far too focused on absorbing the sights and sounds of the city. The colour grey dominated, with the tall buildings and the roads between them being made up of sharp, clean angles. Red and black banners bearing the Imperial crest were hung from the walls. Kaas City radiated power and strength, a magnificent fortress that was home to countless Sith and millions of Imperial citizens. Zavahier felt a little overwhelmed by it, the biggest city he had ever seen.

There were many people going about their business, walking swiftly through the streets, mostly military officers and civilians, but Zavahier also spotted two Sith, recognisable by their elaborate robes and palpable auras of dark power. Nobody paid him any attention, as they were all too focused on their own lives to care about an awed – and slightly lost – Sith apprentice.

He reached a central plaza, where steps led down into a lower area. Two broad roads on raised platforms created a pair of bridges over this recessed area, and a large, seemingly ornamental structure stood in the centre. It consisted of twenty crystalline pillars embedded with lights hovering over the plaza, and Zavahier paused to just stare at it for a while, impressed with both the size and aesthetics of the structure. Did it serve a purpose, or was it just there to look pretty?

Zavahier moved on, climbing one of the bridges that crossed the plaza purely because it was some twenty metres higher than the road that went around the recessed area; he thought that by getting up higher, he might be able to get his bearings a bit better and work out where he was supposed to go.

Amazingly, this did actually help. From up here he could see an impressive building to the north; it was taller than any other building in the area, with a central tower and two lower wings to the sides. The front of it glowed with many lights, most of them blue, but right in the centre was the Imperial crest surrounded by red lights. A massive _Harrower-_class dreadnought hovered protectively over it. Zavahier felt sure this had to be the Imperial Citadel; if the building’s imposing appearance hadn’t been enough to tell him that, its presence in the Force – the combined aura of all the Sith currently within – certainly would have.

It was an impressive building, certainly, and a lot _newer_ than he had been expecting. He had imagined that it would be much like the pyramid that housed the Sith Academy on Korriban, but the Citadel had been constructed much more recently, its architecture closely matching the other buildings in Kaas City. But it made sense, he supposed; Korriban’s history went back tens of thousands of years, while Dromund Kaas had been recolonised only a fifteen hundred years ago. The Citadel looked newer still, though.

Yet to be a _part_ of that glorious history was a wonderful thing, wasn’t it? Zavahier was but the latest generation of a culture and collection of traditions that went back for millennia. Some of those traditions needed modernising, of course… but this place was inspiring. He could almost see why the Empire commanded such loyalty in most of its citizens. Someone with the right mindset would _want_ to fight to protect this city.

Zavahier could admit, if only to himself, that he might consider himself such a person. There were things worth fighting for here, even if he considered himself primarily Caekarran, not Imperial.

With his destination finally in sight, after what felt like a _very_ long couple of days, Zavahier made his way towards the Citadel. As he drew closer, he realised there was no direct road to the most important building on the whole planet. More wonderful design work, undoubtedly by the same genius that placed the spaceport fifteen kilometres away from the city. The Citadel was separated from the rest of the city by a canyon so deep that he couldn’t see the bottom, though clearly there had to be one down there somewhere, because several tall buildings rose out of the mist, dwarfed by the Citadel they surrounded. At the edge of the canyon, clinging to one of the few natural rocks he’d seen in Kaas City, was an old, weathered tree, looking oddly out of place in this otherwise incredibly clean and organised place.

Thinking that if he followed the edge of the canyon he would eventually find a way across it to the Citadel, Zavahier wandered along the road that ran along the edge of the sheer drop into the depths below. Several of the buildings rising out of the depths of the canyon were connected to each other by enclosed bridges, so surely there must be some way to get to them, and from there, to the Citadel?

Before long he reached a speeder platform. Not at all like the small one just outside the spaceport, but a large one with many available vehicles, from the small speeder bikes he’d seen flying overhead earlier, to larger taxis intended to carry multiple people. There were also a number of droids in the area, most of whom were working on repairing or maintaining the speeders. Zavahier picked out a droid that didn’t seem to be otherwise engaged, and requested to be taken to the Citadel.

It took a few minutes to load Khem and Shâsot into the speeder taxi. Shâsot in particular was not keen on riding in a speeder again; the last time the Tuk’ata had been in a speeder, Karroh had been piloting, and Shâsot hadn’t liked how high and fast Karroh had flown. Apparently, Shâsot still remembered this, and he wouldn’t settle until Zavahier used the Force to calm him. Khem was just too big and bulky to comfortably fit in the speeder. The whole process took far longer than Zavahier felt it should have.

Once they were underway, the actual flight across the canyon was brief, and the droid brought the speeder in for a gentle landing on the platform suspended outside the Citadel less than a minute after taking off. The droid probably ferried people across the canyon on a regular basis.

Zavahier helped Khem and Shâsot extricate themselves from the speeder, and then turned his attention to the Citadel. To the left was a wing that had apparently become an embassy to the Mandalorians, judging by the number of mercenaries coming and going. The wing to the right was, according to the map, the headquarters for the Ministries of War, Intelligence and Logistics. But the central tower was the Sith Sanctum. Only Sith were allowed within.

Finally, he had arrived at the home of the Sith Order.

There was something about the Sith Sanctum that made Zavahier feel somewhat uneasy. It was hard to pin down exactly what it was, though. The Force was strong here, amplified by the presence of many Sith, but that wasn’t what unsettled him. There was something else, something hidden. The feeling intensified as he walked through the entrance and into the great hall beyond. He was on a raised platform that circled the edges of the hall, and in the centre was a massive holoprojector that cast the Imperial crest in bright green light in four directions. When he approached it, leaning against the handrails and looking down, he saw that the holoprojector was at the tip of a very, very tall pillar. Beneath the platform on which he was standing was… seemingly nothing.

He gave an involuntary shiver, sensing _something_ in the depths of the Citadel.

Yes, whatever it was, it was down there.

But then he thought about all the Sith who lived here. All the ones who had been part of this place for hundreds of years before he’d even been born. All the ones who had _died _here, leaving behind an echo of their fury and hate. Dromund Kaas, like Korriban, was imprinted with the dark side of the Force. That was all he was sensing, no different to the echoes of emotion within Korriban’s tombs. Once he got used to how it felt, it would no longer bother him. In a few weeks, perhaps.

Zavahier pushed himself away from the handrails and continued deeper into the Citadel. He spoke to one of the honour guards to get directions to Zash’s office, which was situated at the end of a long corridor deep in the centre of the building. It was much tidier than her office on Korriban had been, and her desk was almost empty, save for the glowing map of the galaxy Zavahier had retrieved from the tomb of Naga Sadow, a handful of books, and a single holocron, which Zavahier recognised as the one he’d recovered from the tomb of Marka Ragnos. It was good to know all his hard work during his trials had actually served a purpose, though he still wasn’t entirely sure what that purpose actually was.

“Are you acquainted with a big, ugly, half-machine Dark Lord? He had a message for you,” Zavahier asked Lord Zash as he reached her desk. “He says he knows what you’re planning.”

“Damn Skotia!” Zash said, throwing down the book she was reading in frustration. “What business has he, going behind my back, speaking to my apprentice! Trying to intimidate you, no doubt.”

“He tried. And failed,” Zavahier confirmed. He was hardly going to tell his master that Skotia _had _actually frightened him a little.

Zash stood and walked quickly around her desk, coming to stand in front of Zavahier. “Wretched monster. More machine than man and dangerously powerful. Ever since I arrived on Dromund Kaas as an apprentice, he’s made every effort to stand in my way,” she continued.

“He is flesh. He can be killed,” Khem remarked.

This was a line of thinking that Zavahier was inclined to agree with. Skotia had been rather intimidating, certainly, but if he avoided or ran away from everything that ever frightened him, he’d spend the rest of his life cowering in a corner somewhere. As long as his fear didn’t dominate him or prevent him from acting, it was a useful emotion to have. It gave him power, and the strength to conquer the things that frightened him. Fear was a tool, not an obstacle.

“Ultimately, we cannot even begin the search for Tulak Hord’s ancient power with Skotia’s rattling breath on our necks,” Zash said.

“Somebody should stop him from breathing, then,” Zavahier said, stating the obvious solution… and really rather hoping that he would have a chance at killing Skotia himself. It would be a challenge, naturally, but after the way Skotia had treated him, it was a very _appealing_ challenge. The fact that Skotia frightened him was precisely the reason why he had to do this. And it was time to make it clear to the Empire that anybody who looked down on him for his background as a slave would pay for that mistake with their life.

Perhaps Zash sensed that desire in him, or maybe it was what she’d been planning all along, but when Zavahier suggested killing Skotia, a little smile crept across Zash’s face, and she said, “Yes – and that somebody is you. _You_ are going to kill Skotia for me.”

“No problem,” Zavahier replied, experiencing a mixture of excitement and terror at the prospect. “I always like a challenge.”

“Good. That’s precisely the attitude you’ll need,” Zash said appreciatively. “I cannot be tied to Skotia’s murder. Brazen power plays make the Dark Council nervous. But nobody will believe that a mere apprentice could defeat Skotia. It’s impossible, and that’s why it will work.”

“Well, the impossible _is_ my speciality,” Zavahier said. Just because he didn’t yet know how he would kill Skotia didn’t mean he wouldn’t be able to find a way. Harkun had always set impossible tasks for him as well, but that had never stopped him from succeeding. This was no different. “I need to think about how I will do it, though.”

“I’ve begun to piece together the puzzle for Darth Skotia’s destruction already – but some elements have yet to fall into place,” Zash replied.

Well, _that_ was a little unexpected, wasn’t it?

Zavahier was so used to doing everything by himself that the news that Zash was actually _helping_ with this plan was genuinely a surprise. He had fully been expecting to have to figure it all out for himself, from the earliest planning to the actual execution. But Zash wasn’t like Harkun. She _wanted_ him to succeed, and since she knew far more about Skotia than he did, there was a certain sense to Zash and Zavahier working together to figure out a plan.

It was just really _weird_ to have a master who actually seemed to like him. Harkun had always loathed him. As had Rawste. Being reviled was a more natural state than being liked.

“In the meantime, however, you should get yourself settled in,” Zash said, rummaging in her pocket for a moment before handing him an access card. “I’ve secured you an apartment in the north-eastern part of the city. A number of other apprentices live in the same building, so it’ll be a good opportunity for you to make a few friends.”

Zavahier rather doubted that would happen; if the Sith of Dromund Kaas were at all like those on Korriban, he could expect to be treated as an inferior by the other Sith apprentices, rather than as an equal. Still, he didn’t _need_ to make any friends. “What’s the point in making friends with them? I’ll just have to kill them eventually anyway.”

Zash chuckled softly. “Maybe you will, maybe you won’t. Just because you might end up as enemies in future is no reason not to get to know them now. You’ll learn a lot just by being around other Sith. And not all of them are like Harkun,” she pointed out, as if she knew exactly why Zavahier was so reluctant to associate with other Sith. “You get along with Darth Baras’ apprentice, don’t you?”

“That’s different,” Zavahier replied.

“Are you sure?” Zash asked him, her eyes shining with amusement. There was a little knowing smile on her face.

“I… well…” Zavahier began, before trailing off, not really willing to express _why_ Karroh was different to any other Sith in the Empire. It would have entailed describing, in entirely too much depth, his insecurities about his origins as a slave, the reasons he’d learned to fear and distrust other Sith, and all the myriad ways Karroh had proven himself a good friend simply by respecting Zavahier’s strength.

Baras’ gift of a slave to Karroh had ruined things somewhat, though.

Which just served to make Zavahier even _less_ willing to get to know any other apprentices. If he was going to make another friend, he wanted it to last.

“Caution is a valuable trait. It will keep you alive. But don’t let it consume you. Be wary of others – yes, even your friend Karroh – and guard your secrets carefully, but remain open to potential alliances. The Sith who stands completely alone will end up surrounded by enemies,” Zash explained.

Zavahier supposed there was at least some sense to what his master was telling him. He knew _that_ from his experiences with Karroh, where teamwork had allowed them to do things they could never have achieved alone. Yet he also thought that even if he forged alliances with other Sith, it still left him vulnerable to being torn apart from all sides. An ally could still betray him.

Unless he betrayed them first, of course.

And as much as he liked Karroh, how often had he ever gone to his fellow apprentice for help? How many secrets had he shared with Karroh? How many things did he simply feel unable to discuss with anybody, even his closest friend?

“I’ll think about it,” Zavahier said eventually, conceding the fact that Zash was older than him – though not by much, if he guessed correctly – and more experienced. But her temperament was quite different to his own. Socialising with her rivals and enemies seemed to appeal to Zash in a way it simply _didn’t_ to Zavahier. He felt safer when he was alone.

Maybe that was the point. By exposing himself to other Sith, befriending them in the short term and being ready for treachery in the long run, he wouldn’t be safe, but he _would_ be constantly challenged to be strong and clever.

“Good,” Zash said, smiling at him again. “Now, I still have some research to do before we can put our plan into motion, so you will have a couple of days to get yourself established. You have full access to the library and training rooms here in the Sith Sanctum – you’ll find them superior to the ones at the Academy, so I suggest you make good use of them. I’ll contact you when I know what I need you to do.”


	14. Home Sweet Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier settles into his new home.

Since Zavahier had been expecting to be put to work as soon as he arrived in Kaas City, the prospect of having a few days in which to acclimatise himself was a surprise. But he couldn’t say he objected. He certainly _would_ spend some time in the library, as Zash had suggested, though after all of the fighting he’d been doing over the last few days, the training rooms could wait a while, he thought. But his first stop would be to the apartment Zash had acquired for him. The idea of it alone pleased him. He had never had a place to truly call his own before. On Korriban, he had shared the barracks with his fellow acolytes, and before that, his ‘home’ had been a crowded cage. He’d never had a _real_ home, a private space that belonged only to him.

Zavahier took another taxi from the platform outside the Citadel, having the droid take him, Khem and Shâsot directly to the building where his new apartment awaited him. The building itself looked the same as several other skyscrapers around it, dark grey and angular, with a long red and black banner hanging across the front.

And as Zavahier approached the building, he realised he was not the only one heading towards the front door; he found himself on the doorstep with a handsome young man with blonde hair, undeniably a fellow Sith. He turned to Zavahier, and looked him up and down.

“I’ve not seen you before,” he said.

“I’ve only just arrived,” Zavahier replied warily.

“I’m Caider Basken, apprentice to Darth Arctis,” the young man introduced himself, lifting his head proudly.

But this didn’t have the desired effect, because his name wasn’t familiar to Zavahier. The name of his master was, though: Darth Arctis was on the Dark Council. It was easy to see this was a great source of pride to Basken, as though his master’s position was an indication of his place in the pecking order for the apprentices in Kaas City. As if _that_ were any real indication of true power!

“Ezerdus Khalla. I’m Lord Zash’s apprentice,” Zavahier replied. That placed him, as far as he could tell, somewhere near the bottom of whatever hierarchy the apprentices ascribed to: Lord Zash was outranked by the Darths, and the Dark Council were right at the top. While technically speaking all apprentices were equally ranked beneath the actual Sith Lords, in practical terms, the apprentice of a Dark Council member had more prestige than the apprentice of a mere Lord. Dark Council members had their pick of the acolytes, while Zash had been required to select her apprentice from a group of former slaves. But Zavahier was _used_ to being at the bottom. At least he knew the only direction to go was up, and everyone would underestimate him every step of the way.

He wasn’t expecting much of a welcome from Basken, and he didn’t get one. The other apprentice gave him a dismissive, “Nice to meet you,” before going into the apartment building. Zavahier followed a short distance behind him, pausing to check his access card to find out which apartment was his – 13B – before entering the same elevator as Basken. The other apprentice had pressed the button for the nineteenth floor. After a short silence, Basken looked at Zavahier again, and then at Khem, who was still carrying the injured Shâsot.

“You have a Dashade _and_ a Tuk’ata?” Basken asked, now slightly more interested. “How’d you manage that?”

Zavahier considered not answering, knowing how valuable it was to keep secrets. Yet there were also times when bragging had its place, and this certainly seemed to be one of them. “I beat Khem in a duel, so now he’s bound to me. We killed a Terentatek together,” he said. Basken didn’t need to know any of the details; just the fact that Zavahier had beaten both a Dashade _and _a Terentatek in combat was enough to prove his strength. “And I found the Tuk’ata as a pup. I had to keep him hidden from the Overseers.”

“It looks injured,” Basken said dubiously.

“Some idiot Mandalorians shot him,” Zavahier replied. “So I killed them.”

Basken stared at him for a moment, and then laughed. “Alright, you’ve proved your point: you’re tougher than you look.”

There was another brief silence, and then the elevator came to a halt, the doors sliding open to reveal the thirteenth floor. Zavahier went to step around Basken, but the other apprentice stopped him. “There’s a lounge and a bar on the top floor. Some of us like to meet there in the evenings. You’re welcome to join us,” Basken said.

Zavahier made a show of giving Basken the same kind of appraising look as the other apprentice had been giving him. And then, finally, he said, “I’ll see if I have the time.”

Since Basken had been looking down on him – though certainly with a lot less open contempt than Zavahier was used to – it only seemed fair that Zavahier treat him with the same kind of aloofness. He sensed he had earned a little bit of respect from the other apprentice, but that didn’t mean they were friends now. The best that could be said at this point was that Basken didn’t seem to view him as an unworthy slave.

That would probably change when he learned of Zavahier’s origins, though.

Zavahier stepped out of the elevator, followed by Khem, and the doors slid closed behind him. Now that his every move was no longer being observed by Basken, he took the time to study his surroundings. He was in a large foyer, which was covered in thick grey carpet, and the walls were decorated with the now very familiar Imperial banners. There were no windows, and only two doors – one was marked as apartment 13A, and the other was 13B. His new home consisted of half of the entire floor of this building! It must be huge!

With a spring in his step, he hurried over to the door and opened it with his access card. Beyond was the apartment. _His _apartment. And it _was _huge!

The first room was a lounge area, covered with the same soft grey carpet as the foyer outside. In the centre were three curved couches surrounding a circular table. A little off to one side was a desk with a computer terminal, and next to it was a holoterminal. Part of the wall actually turned out to be a small vault in which he could store his valuables – when he actually got anything worth locking inside it, of course. On the other side of the room was a large window, taking up the entire wall, with a glass door that led out onto a good sized balcony.

Connected to this main room were three others. The largest of these was the bedroom, which included a bed that turned out to have a wonderfully springy mattress and smooth silk sheets. A large window looked out across the city, but there were black curtains to pull across when he wanted some privacy. Two doors leading off from the bedroom revealed a walk-in closet for his clothes and armour, and an en suite refresher with a large bath in the corner.

Zavahier headed back out to the main room and investigated the remaining rooms. The first was a smaller bedroom, equipped with bunks for Khem and any other servants he acquired in the future. The Dashade had set Shâsot down on one of the beds, and was now pressing his large hand against the mattress of another, testing its strength.

“Don’t you like it?” Zavahier asked the Dashade.

“It is soft,” Khem replied non-committally.

“Well, we could replace it with a nice hard rock, if you like,” Zavahier suggested.

Khem just grumbled to himself, so Zavahier decided to leave him be, instead choosing to find out what was in the last room. It turned out to be a kind of joint meditation chamber and training room. Subdued lighting and a pile of squishy cushions in the back corner of the room created an ideal spot for communing with the dark side, while the rest of the room was covered with training mats, and a dummy for target practice stood against the wall.

Driven by the urge to simply _enjoy_ the luxurious home Zash had provided him with, Zavahier dived into the cushions in the meditation corner, and ended up lying on his back, tossing sparks of lightning from one hand to the other while simply revelling in how _comfortable_ he was. A part of him suspected that a wealthier and higher ranking Sith would look at this apartment and consider it close to squalor. No doubt some of the other apprentices in this building thought they deserved better.

But Zavahier _loved_ his new home!

All of this space was his!

He didn’t have to share it with anybody – except Khem and Shâsot, of course – and he had _privacy_! He could meditate without being watched. He could study or train without being interrupted. He could sleep without having to listen to anybody else’s snoring… or worry about being overheard when he talked in his sleep.

He could just wander around completely naked if he wanted to!

Zavahier rolled over and then got up, unable to sit still despite how nice the cushions were. Besides, he still had responsibilities. He went over to the desk and turned on the computer, and with a little effort to work out exactly where to find the information he wanted, he found a directory of all the beastmasters in Kaas City. He perused the list of names until he found the one he wanted, trusting his instincts as much as relying on the information in the database, and then he moved to his holoterminal, initiating a call to the one he’d chosen.

“Hello? Who is this?” the woman asked, sounding rather impatient and annoyed with having received an unexpected communication from someone she didn’t know.

“Sith apprentice Ezerdus. Are you Doctor Renncol?” he replied.

“Yes. What can I do for you, my lord?” Renncol asked, quite sensibly choosing to be respectful now that she knew she was talking to a Sith.

“My pet Tuk’ata was injured and needs treatment,” Zavahier said. The best way to get what he wanted, especially when dealing with someone who didn’t want to be interrupted, was to get right to the point. Although compliments also wouldn’t go amiss, so he added, “You seem to be the most competent beastmaster in the city.”

Renncol gave a long-suffering sigh, and she seemed about to say something, before deciding the better of it and shaking her head. “Alright, you can bring it in and I’ll take a look, in… oh, let’s say one hour,” she said.

“Thank you,” Zavahier said, ending the communication. He had the distinct impression that Doctor Renncol was quite overworked… or perhaps just frustrated with being interrupted in the middle of something important. But Shâsot’s health was more important to him than Renncol’s work schedule.

Still, he had a little time to kill, so he began unpacking his belongings. He changed into a set of clean robes, and the rest went into the closet, except the dirty ones, which were left in a heap on the floor. He would take them to be cleaned later. The various trophies he’d collected during his time on Korriban were set out on the available shelves and small tables, adding a little of his personality to what were otherwise probably completely standard furnishings. The stained red skull from the rite of blood and bone was placed on a shelf in the lounge, its hollow eye sockets looking over the whole room. The big toe from a statue was placed in the middle of the lounge table, though Zavahier wasn’t convinced that it looked quite right there. But he could move things around later if he wanted to.

The lightsabre he’d claimed from Yadira Ban was placed in the meditation room so he could carefully dismantle it later. The various crystals he’d collected and earned were also left there; he would compare them to both the powerful Force-imbued crystal in his amulet and the focusing crystal in the Jedi’s lightsabre. And the one in his own lightsabre too, if he could get at it without permanently damaging his weapon.

Once he was done with this small amount of decorating, he collected Shâsot, and made his way out of the building, with the Tuk’ata limping slowly beside him, and occasionally whimpering quietly in pain.

“I’m sorry, Shâsot. Come on, it’s not far,” Zavahier replied, slowing his pace to walk at the same speed as his pet.

Zavahier knew he could have asked Khem to carry Shâsot, but Renncol’s premises weren’t far away – one of the reasons Zavahier had selected her – and he thought the beastmaster would be less intimidated if she didn’t have to deal with Khem looming over her.

Doctor Renncol’s premises were in fact attached to a large stables, filled with large, docile beasts – mostly Dewbacks – which Zavahier made note of; the thought occurred to him that until he managed to arrange for speeder piloting lessons, if he needed to travel any great distance he could simply acquire a beast to ride instead. If he could afford it. That was something to investigate at some other time, however, and for now he proceeded straight through to Renncol’s office.

She was waiting for him when he arrived, and immediately showed him through into an examination room. Zavahier used the Force to lift Shâsot up onto the table, since the Tuk’ata was getting far too heavy for him to lift manually. Doctor Renncol carefully removed the bandages the medic at Outpost Tempest had placed on Shâsot’s wounds, and then began probing the burned hide with her fingers.

“This looks like blaster fire…” she said.

“It is. Some Mandalorians ambushed us while we were travelling,” Zavahier replied. “Which reminds me: the survivors have generously volunteered to pay for Shâsot’s medical care. So give him the best care you can, and send the bill to clan Chuat.”

Renncol just nodded in response, choosing not to ask for any details. Instead, she focused all of her attention back on Shâsot, and began giving the Tuk’ata’s injuries a more thorough treatment than the medic had been able to provide. Once she was done, she suggested that Shâsot stay in her care for a few more days, just to ensure he was healing well… which would cost a lot more than if Zavahier took Shâsot home, of course. And since somebody else was paying – and he wanted to make sure Avots Chuat was appropriately punished for his actions – Zavahier agreed to Renncol’s suggestion.

After seeing Shâsot settled into a comfortable stall, Zavahier returned to the apartment building. But rather than go straight to his apartment, he instead went all the way up to the top floor; he had noticed his apartment did not have its own kitchen, and thus made the assumption that there would be a shared kitchen and dining area in the vicinity of the lounge and bar Basken had mentioned. Zavahier was correct, and he placed an order with the kitchen droid. He was about to find a quiet table in the corner to sit down, when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

Startled, Zavahier whirled around, purple sparks leaping to his fingertips… only to see Caider Basken snickering at him.

“You’re jumpy, aren’t you?” the other apprentice remarked.

“Of course I am. People keep trying to murder me,” Zavahier grumbled irritably.

“Wow, you really _are_ new,” Basken said, before grabbing him by the shoulders and steering him towards a group of apprentices lounging on couches on the other side of the room. “Hey, look at this, we’ve got a new guy,” Basken said to them. “He’s Lord Zash’s apprentice, and… what did you say your name was again?”

“Ezerdus,” he replied, watching the other apprentices suspiciously. In addition to Basken, there was a young woman with dark blonde hair, an elegant-looking Sith Pureblood woman, and a male Twi’lek with red skin and dark spots. The presence of the Twi’lek actually reassured Zavahier a little; a group that was comfortable with an alien was more likely to accept a former slave too. Yet he remained wary. These were all other Sith, all potential enemies, and he was not about to trust them just because they seemed friendly on the surface.

The other apprentices all introduced themselves; the human woman was Tifati Eldon, apprentice to Darth Skath; the Pureblood was Âyihsai Suvia, apprentice to Darth Veddin, and the Twi’lek was Janzem’lojor, apprentice to Lord Izali. It was as all these introductions were taking place that Zavahier realised that knowing who their masters’ were served a secondary purpose beyond establishing a hierarchy amongst apprentices: if they all knew who each others’ masters were, they would know if they were enemies, or potential allies.

Caider Basken eagerly explained that he was the apprentice of Darth Arctis, who should be considered Zash’s superior: beneath Arctis, there was Darth Thanaton, and beneath Thanaton was Skotia. Beneath Skotia there was Zash, of course, and then, right at the bottom, was Zavahier. And there were all kinds of politics in play there, but what Zavahier gleaned from the way Basken described it was that for the time being, since Zash ultimately served Arctis, that was plenty enough reason for Caider to be civil towards Zavahier.

Zavahier decided it was best not to say anything about Zash’s intention to have him kill Skotia. That was definitely the kind of secret that nobody else needed to know about, and if Darth Arctis had any idea that Zash was looking to promote herself, he would surely attempt to stop it. And Zavahier knew that if Zash did something that displeased Arctis, then he should expect Caider to become his enemy.

Unless, of course, they decided to team up and murder _both_ their masters. That certainly wasn’t outside the realms of possibility.

There!

He had learned something about Sith politics already!

Âyihsai also explained that they had all mutually decided that regardless of what went on elsewhere on Dromund Kaas, this lounge was neutral ground. Any apprentice who violated that by trying to kill another here would be executed by the others.

Zavahier agreed to that willingly enough. It wasn’t going to make him any less suspicious of attack, of course. But he was content to not attempt to murder any of these apprentices while enjoying the ‘sanctuary’ of this lounge… as long as they didn’t try to kill him. He wasn’t going to discount the possibility that being told this was neutral ground was simply a way of getting him to lower his guard. That was what _he_ would have done, after all.

Yet he had to admit that these apprentices weren’t as bad as he’d thought they were going to be. Not a single mention was made about how he wasn’t worthy of being Sith. It actually wasn’t too different to hanging around Karroh, really. There was the obligatory bragging about their strength and achievements, naturally. The other apprentices certainly had a lot more of those, having months or even years of experience in which to accumulate such proof of their power.

Zavahier still would not have called any of them his friends. But he was beginning to understand what Zash had meant about spending time with his fellow Sith. He would never trust them, and one day he may well have to kill them all. But right now, he was learning a lot just from being around them. For the first time he had a true standard against which to measure himself: these were other apprentices, people who had completed their trials and knew how to use the Force. Zavahier was inclined to think he compared favourably against them. It was hard to say for sure, because they were all clearly strong in the Force. But he thought he was stronger.

Before long, the drinks started flowing, and he listened to the other apprentices’ stories. Âyihsai had done a brief stint on Kashyyyk, hunting down an enemy of her master – a Jedi, naturally – and had been required to kill several Wookiees trying to protect said Jedi. Tifati had located and killed two spies in Darth Skath’s ranks, and though she hadn’t admitted to it openly, Zavahier was quite sure she had implicated Skath’s other apprentice in allowing the spies to enter Skath’s estate; he had been executed, leaving Tifati as Skath’s only apprentice. Janzem described a brave incursion into a part of Dromund Kaas called the Malignant Bog, which was every bit as menacing as the name implied; but he would not say what he had been sent there to do. And Caider was confident he would soon be provided with a ship so he could conduct Darth Arctis’ business all across the galaxy, hunting Jedi and seeking artefacts.

In turn, Zavahier told them of his adventures on the _Black Talon_ – while eating the dinner the kitchen droid delivered to him – and it seemed he acquitted himself well. Commandeering a ship to attack a Republic warship and killing a Jedi in the process was considered a suitably impressive feat for these other apprentices to see him as truly Sith, worthy of being seen as their equal.

It was all very interesting, and it made the life of a Sith apprentice sound quite exciting. Âyihsai in particular seemed to have a gift for storytelling, making her exploits on Kashyyyk sound very impressive.

This was probably what his life was going to be like too: sent on missions by Zash, he would have grand adventures while accomplishing those tasks, and would return to Dromund Kaas with wonderful stories to tell. A few months from now, would he be boasting of his assassination of Darth Skotia to these apprentices?

He really wasn’t sure.

Though a part of him had enjoyed describing how he’d taken the _Brentaal Star_ and killed Yadira Ban – exaggerating the tale a little, of course – and he could certainly see the value in making public displays of power… at the same time, he liked secrecy and the feeling of subterfuge. Caider, Âyihsai, Tifati and Janzem had inadvertently told him a lot about themselves as they bragged of their achievements. But he didn’t want people to know too much about his abilities. Enough to fear him, but not enough to be able to predict his actions.


	15. Games Sith Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier explores Kaas City and discovers there's always something going on.

The next morning, Zavahier was left with the small puzzle of how to spend the days off Zash had granted him. He probably _could_ go out into the wilderness surrounding the city and find some trouble, because the jungles seemed to contain a lot of aggressive wildlife that probably needed killing. Or Mandalorians, for that matter. And whoever had sabotaged the landing beacons was still out there somewhere too.

But he’d spent the last three days fighting, and while he wouldn’t ever have admitted it aloud, especially not to any other Sith, nor to Khem, he was actually quite tired. He wanted to actually get some rest while he had the chance. Killing Darth Skotia was going to be a challenge, and if he allowed himself to become exhausted, he was doomed to failure. No matter how strong his bloodlust was, even the most powerful Sith needed to rest sometimes. The burns on his hands were still healing, though less painful now, and it wasn’t like his time on Korriban had been particularly relaxing, either.

No, if he wanted to be at his best when it was finally time to confront Skotia, he needed to let himself rest and recuperate.

Yet he didn’t want to just stay inside all day. There was still something about Dromund Kaas that made him restless. Maybe it was something to do with the constant storms in the sky, or the planet’s powerful presence in the Force, or even the dreams of that dark tomb and the rising sense of anticipation. Perhaps it was just his own curiosity and sense of adventure. It was hard to be on a new world and _not_ go poking into its secrets.

Well, he could at least explore the city, couldn’t he?

And perhaps visit the library in the afternoon.

Although Zavahier wasn’t specifically intending to seek out any trouble, that didn’t mean he wasn’t expecting it to find him, so he wore his armour and clipped his lightsabre to his belt. Just in case. Just so that when somebody inevitably tried to kill him, he would be prepared for it. It didn’t really matter that he wanted to have a few days of relative peace and quiet. He didn’t expect to actually get it.

And besides, there was something to be said for looking at least a _little_ intimidating whenever he went out in public. It was a strategy employed by many Sith, and it seemed to work rather well. Zavahier wanted to be a little scary, insofar as that was possible for a scrawny former slave.

Khem was uninterested in exploring the city – “When you have something of importance to do, I will be there. Sate your curiosity without me.” – so Zavahier set out alone. He tried not to think too much about what Khem would do alone in the apartment. What did Dashades even do for fun anyway?

Eat people, probably.

Perhaps he ought to find some task for Khem to pursue, something to keep him occupied during those times when Zavahier didn’t need Khem following him around? Khem was driven by duty and honour, and would likely appreciate having something useful to do. And that could only work to Zavahier’s advantage too; not only would he keep Khem too busy to even _think_ about ways of breaking the bond between them, but he could retrieve interesting artefacts for him. Holocrons. Crystals. Powerful Sith jewellery. Stronger weapons. He could slowly build up a source of strength and knowledge that Zash knew nothing about.

Yes, that was a fantastic idea!

Zavahier would put it into motion as soon as he had finished exploring Kaas City. This time off was so he could settle in, and learning a bit more about his new home seemed the most sensible first step. He wanted to get a better feel for the layout of Kaas City, so he could move around the city without worrying about getting lost.

So he went exploring, first following the road from his apartment building towards the canyon in the centre of the city, intent on finding an easily learned route from his home to the Citadel. He made note of potential landmarks on the way; an ancient obelisk stood on that street corner, and beyond it, a cantina with a bright pink sign. From there, Zavahier could see the crystal structure in the central plaza, and to the north was the Citadel. With some further exploration, he discovered that both the crystals and the Citadel were large enough that they could be seen from various points throughout Kaas City, so as long as he could find one of them, he would never truly be lost.

And with that duly established, Zavahier began to relax. Kaas City was a big city – larger than Veah, the capital of Caekarro – and the biggest place he’d ever had the freedom to explore, but it was laid out in an organised, straightforward manner. Someone – presumably not the same man responsible for the spaceport – had put a lot of thought into Kaas City. But as Zavahier continued to explore, he found it wasn’t getting lost that truly worried him. The presence of other Sith in the city gave him a spike of anxiety even when he could only sense them from a distance, but they were very much the minority of the people he encountered. Even in the very heart of the Empire, the Sith were only a tiny portion of the population. Perhaps one in a million? One in a billion?

Or even less than that, given that multiple Sith in a single location usually ended in the deaths of all but one.

It made him feel rather special, really. Just knowing that people like him were so rare.

But over the course of several hours, Zavahier neither lost his way nor was ambushed by an enemy, and he began to realise that he didn’t need to be _quite_ so suspicious. Kaas City was home to countless people, and while it didn’t feel like home to him yet, he thought one day it might.

And that was exactly what Zash had wanted, wasn’t it? She’d given him this time to get used to his surroundings for this very reason. He could focus more completely on the problem of ridding the galaxy of Darth Skotia if he wasn’t worrying about whether he truly belonged here and jumping at every shadow in the corner of his eye.

Zavahier still couldn’t say he was entirely certain that he belonged here, though. He didn’t consider himself to be Imperial, no matter what the records said. He was Caekarran. He saw himself as Sith too, naturally, but he was still entirely too aware of the fact that other Sith didn’t. And that they probably never would. Yet Kaas City wasn’t just inhabited by Sith; there were millions of other people too, and they didn’t question his right to move as he wished through the city. They either ignored him entirely, or gave him respectful nods, greeting him with ‘sir’ or ‘my lord’. He rather liked it.

Right up until that moment when he turned a corner and found himself subjected to angry yelling. It was coming from a large, fat man with a thick blonde beard.

“Seven brutal, bloody murders! Seven! And the killer is allowed to walk free? Decent, law-abiding citizens – loyal servants of the Emperor – are being slaughtered. And what do our security forces do? Nothing!” the man ranted loudly. “I’ve seen the killer myself, but the authorities say I don’t have enough proof. I demand justice!”

Zavahier looked from side to side, trying to see if the man was actually complaining at somebody else. But he wasn’t. His gaze was inexplicably fixed on Zavahier. Several thoughts passed swiftly through his mind. His first instinct was to simply electrocute the man for yelling at him.

Actually, that was a fantastic idea.

He raised his hand and delivered a quick, sharp jolt to the man, which was at least enough to stop him shouting. Then Zavahier asked, “Why are you yelling at me?”

“I apologise for raising my voice, my lord,” the man said quickly. “But these murders cannot go unpunished – not when the killer is so obvious. But nobody will listen to me. I must be heard. I’m the only one who knows the truth.”

Zavahier studied the man, taking in not only his appearance, but the lack of any obvious indications of rank. He was a civilian, something of a rarity in an Empire where military service was close to mandatory for every able-bodied man and woman. The only exceptions tended to be those who were more useful elsewhere, or had already completed a thirty year tour of duty. Or those who were not fully trusted, such as Zavahier’s father. Which of those this man was was still open to question. Yet he radiated not only righteous anger at the murders, but frustration with the fact that nobody would take him seriously because he was just a civilian. He’d started yelling at Zavahier simply for walking by at the right moment and being a higher authority than the city’s security forces.

And if he was ready to start shouting at a Sith, he must be desperate indeed.

“How exactly is yelling at me supposed to help?” Zavahier asked.

“Well, I’m—I’m not fit to confront such a person. But someone has to!” the man replied, and when Zavahier made no move to walk away, nor to shock him again, he began to explain. “Several days ago, I spotted a bounty hunter following people seemingly at random – but pointing a strange device at them. The descriptions of the murder victims exactly match the people the hunter was following. He’s behind these brutal killings, I know it.”

“Your evidence is thin,” Zavahier said doubtfully. While pointing a device at people certainly _was _suspicious, if those people didn’t immediately die, the link between the device and the deaths was tenuous at best. Still, there _was_ something odd about this situation. His instincts told him that, even if he couldn’t quite work out _what_ was wrong. Maybe he should hear what else the man had to say.

“No. I know what I saw. I—I made no mistakes, I’m sure of it,” the man insisted, his voice beginning to rise again. “I followed the killer this morning. Saw the filthy alien skulking into the Mandalorian Enclave. Someone called him by name – Renegin. This bounty hunter must learn the Empire doesn’t tolerate alien scum like him killing its citizens. He needs to be punished!”

Zavahier was still a little uncertain about this. He certainly wasn’t going to assume the man was guilty _just_ because he was an alien. Yet if there _was_ someone killing Imperial citizens, then he would seem to have an obligation to investigate. He was Sith. He might only be an apprentice, but he was still a part of the Empire’s leadership, and that came with responsibilities. And…

Something else.

Not loyalty. Not devotion.

No, it was _possession_.

If his future was to rule the Empire, then that made all of this _his_.

And if this city belonged to him, if its inhabitants were his servants, then it was up to him to protect them. Dead servants were useless. And did a leader not have an obligation to those he ruled?

“Alright, I will investigate. Just no more yelling,” Zavahier said as he reached his decision.

“Of—of course, my lord,” the man said. “And thank you.”

Zavahier made his way towards the Citadel, not really sure of how he was going to find this Renegin; there seemed to be rather a lot of Mandalorians on Dromund Kaas, and the Enclave in particular was likely full of them. And all he had was a name and the fact that the man wasn’t human. But there had to be more information available somewhere. The Empire prided itself on meticulous record-keeping. And so, instead of going straight to the Mandalorian Enclave, he instead went to the other side of the Citadel, into the headquarters of the combined Ministries of War, Logistics and Intelligence. It seemed the most sensible place to get the information he needed… and came with the added bonus of satisfying his curiosity about what was inside.

And Zavahier discovered very quickly that the reality was a lot less exciting than what he’d been imagining. There were rooms filled with consoles, and countless men and women working on them. The most interesting item was a ten metre tall holographic Dromund Kaas, but he couldn’t tell from looking at it whether it served a particular function, or was merely decorative.

There were, of course, areas that were sealed behind closed doors, and the looks the guards gave him were warning enough that he needed a better excuse than curiosity before he would be allowed inside.

“What are you doing here?” The voice was immediately recognisable as Mezzeni’s, and she didn’t sound pleased. “If you’re here to cause trouble, you can just leave right now.”

Zavahier gave an exaggerated sigh. “No, I’m not here to cause trouble. Stop assuming everything is about _you_.”

“So why are you here?” Mezzeni asked again.

“I’m investigating someone. I need more information on him. It was either find somebody here who knows, or start torturing random people until I find what I need,” Zavahier replied, deciding that he might as well make the most of Mezzeni’s disapproval. If she was going to assume the worst of him regardless, he might as well play the part. And it seemed to work; Mezzeni gave him a long, hard look, trying to weigh up the situation, balancing her dislike of him against the possibility that he really _would_ start painfully interrogating people.

“Alright, fine. Who do you need information on?” Mezzeni asked at last.

“A man called Renegin. He’s an alien, and may be affiliated with the Mandalorians,” Zavahier replied. “But I need more information – what species is he, what does he look like, and where can I find him?”

“And why do you—” Mezzeni began, before shaking her head. “Forget it. I don’t want to know. You’re just going to do whatever you want regardless of what I say. And Intelligence will be cleaning up your mess afterwards…”

“Hey! I’m doing this to clean up someone _else’s_ mess. Sounds like _somebody_ isn’t doing their job properly,” Zavahier snapped. While he doubted that Mezzeni had anything to do with the security forces refusing to investigate the murders, the implication that she would have to clean up after _him_ was completely unfair.

Mezzeni opened her mouth to argue, and then closed it again. She took a steadying breath, and then spoke in a calmer, more measured voice. “I’m not going to argue with you, Sith,” she said, before looking over her shoulder and calling someone over with a beckoning gesture. When the man approached, Mezzeni said, “This is Minder Sixteen. He will get you the information you need. I’m done with you.”

And with that, she walked away, heading into one of those mysterious rooms that Zavahier hadn’t been allowed to enter.

She really didn’t like him, did she? Nor Sith in general. What was behind that? It certainly can’t have been entirely because of his actions, and it also stood in very stark contrast to how the rest of the Empire viewed its leaders. That was going to get her in trouble sooner or later, if she ever argued with a Sith much less tolerant than Zavahier.

Minder Sixteen looked far more reasonable to deal with. A human around the age of thirty, with a small array of cybernetic implants on his face, he was regarding Zavahier with curiosity. “How can I help you, sir?”

“There’s been a few murders lately, that the security forces apparently haven’t been investigating,” Zavahier replied, and before he could continue, Minder Sixteen hurried over to a nearby console and accessed the records.

“Ah, yes, I see. Seven of them over the course of four days,” Minder Sixteen confirmed.

“Yes, those are the ones.”

“And… this is strange. You’re right. The security forces _aren’t_ investigating. That’s highly unusual.”

“A potential witness has implicated an alien called Renegin,” Zavahier said. He much preferred Minder Sixteen’s unquestioning obedience over Mezzeni’s attitude. “What information do you have on him?”

Minder Sixteen pulled up the records on Renegin just as swiftly as he had the data on the murders. “He’s a Devaronian, originally a freelance bounty hunter that was recently accepted into the Mandalorian clan Jorn. There’s nothing in his psych profile to suggest he’d kill for fun, though. That doesn’t fit with the Mandalorian sense of honour.”

“He was seen following several of the victims and pointing a device at them,” Zavahier said thoughtfully. “But the victims didn’t die straight away. Poison?”

Minder Sixteen shook his head. “No, the deaths were all very brutal. The victims were practically torn apart. Hmmm… There is definitely something about this that doesn’t add up. I’ll transfer Renegin’s information to your datapad. Continue your investigation, Sith. Imperial Intelligence will be watching.”

“It’s _so_ nice to have your blessings,” Zavahier said. He didn’t need to be _told_ to continue investigating these deaths. He didn’t need Imperial Intelligence’s permission, and nor did he need them to approve of his actions. As far as he was concerned, they served _him_, not the other way around.

But at least he was now armed with an image of Renegin’s face and all the information about the man that he could ever have needed. Zavahier left Imperial Intelligence, and followed the edge of the Citadel to the Mandalorian Enclave. He fully expected to have to go inside to find Renegin, and thus get an opportunity to have a look around, but as he approached the Enclave, he saw a pinkish red figure hurrying towards the speeder platform.

He was trying to escape!

Zavahier quickened his pace and moved to block Renegin’s access to the speeder. The Devaronian was an odd-looking creature – though not as strange as the Mon Calamari, because there probably wasn’t a single species in the whole galaxy that could match _that_. Renegin had sharp, pointed features and a pair of curved horns on his forehead, but otherwise looked fairly _boring_, as aliens went. Why did so many aliens look mostly human? In all the variety of life that existed in the galaxy, how come so many sentient species followed the same basic body plan?

Interesting, wasn’t it?

He would love to know the answer one day.

“I’ve got a shuttle to catch. You mind getting out of my way?” Renegin asked, clearly irritated to have his path blocked. He tried to step around Zavahier.

“Actually, I do,” Zavahier replied, moving again to block the Devaronian’s escape. “Fleeing the scene of your crimes, Renegin?”

“Great. Just my luck. Ten seconds later and I woulda been off this blasted planet,” Renegin said with an irritated sigh. “You’ve been listening to Wrightsyn, haven’t you?”

Zavahier assumed Wrightsyn was the name of the man who’d seen Renegin stalking the murder victims. “He has some interesting things to say about you.”

“Listen, I didn’t murder anybody. I was just hired to tag some random citizens. That’s all,” Renegin said.

That sounded quite a bit like a confession to Zavahier, but he chose to hold off on executing the man just yet. There was still something about this whole situation that struck him as being odd. And if Renegin was hired by someone else, then clearly Zavahier needed to know who had employed him. Why stop at just one murderer when he could hunt down multiple ones? “You admit you’re mixed up in these murders, then? You didn’t ask why you were hired to tag random citizens?”

“I got instructions, not explanations. Seemed harmless at the time. I had no idea my clients would kill those people,” Renegin replied. Then he hesitated for a moment, his dark eyes flicking briefly to the lightsabre on Zavahier’s belt.

Zavahier took the hint. “If you want to live, I suggest you tell me everything.”

Renegin looked around, as if searching for some way to escape, before turning back to Zavahier. “I was hired by a group of Sith to organise ‘games’ for them. Didn’t realise what that meant until bodies started piling up. When I confronted them, they laughed. Said Sith have a birthright to hunt ‘lowlifes’. It’s like a sport to them.”

The Devaronian clearly expected Zavahier to take the side of his fellow Sith. But Zavahier didn’t. Hunting civilians had absolutely no appeal for him; he would rather be hunting something that could offer him a real challenge. And being born as one of those ‘lowlifes’ gave him a rather different perspective on the nature of birthrights too. Then again… Moff Ammelon had touched on the problem of boredom in the ranks after the Treaty of Coruscant had been signed, and the Sith surely felt it, too. But no. Zavahier didn’t accept that as an excuse. He didn’t have anything to do today either, but he didn’t need to resort to killing civilians for sport. “They sound bored. My Sith brethren obviously have too much time on their hands.”

Renegin latched onto this quickly. “I can think of better ways to pass the time, but then, I’m not Sith. But sooner or later, there’ll be a witness to one of these killings. I don’t wanna be around when that happens.”

“Do you know the names of the Sith who hired you?” Zavahier asked. Killing Renegin would provide him with a brief moment of pleasure and satisfaction. Killing his fellow Sith, on the other hand, would be much more challenging – and rewarding.

But Renegin shook his head. “’fraid not. They never told me their names. But I’m not taking the blame for something I didn’t do. I’m in over my head. And too many people are watching me now, so I can’t even leave. I need help, and I’m willing to pay for it. You interested?”

“I might be,” Zavahier replied, not really wanting to commit to anything, but he certainly would listen to what the man had to say.

“I just want this problem to go away, and I only see two ways for that to happen,” Renegin told him. “Either get rid of the loudmouth pointing fingers at me, or end that sick ‘game’ the Sith are playing.”

“I think your clients need to find a new hobby,” Zavahier said, taking the latter option because… well, it was the best one all around. It would undermine other Sith, and it would save innocent lives. Wrightsyn had been annoyingly loud, but there was no challenge in killing him.

“Works for me,” Renegin said, clearly surprised but not at all unhappy with the choice Zavahier had made. “I have a plan that’ll get them so good, no one will have to worry about fallout. Take this hunter tag. Use it on Sith acolytes all around the city. The acolytes will become my clients’ new targets.”

Zavahier smiled, rather liking this plan already. While it was typically expected that the vast majority of acolytes would die, it was supposed to be due to their own failures. If some of them were killed as a result of this ‘game’, it wouldn’t end well for the Sith playing it. Really, there weren’t any downsides to this plan at all. “I like it,” he said, taking the hunter tag from Renegin.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they survive. Come back when you’re done, and I’ll pay you,” Renegin promised.

But it really didn’t matter to Zavahier if the acolytes lived. Well, maybe a little. Only insofar as any involvement in their deaths could end badly for him as well. He couldn’t completely dismiss the idea that Renegin was trying to entrap him, after all. So he would be cautious. But that only added to the challenge: to hunt these acolytes and tag them only when he knew his actions would not be observed.

Oh, this was going to be a lot of fun, wasn’t it?

Zavahier had to concede that he could see what the other Sith found so appealing about this. Yet hunting acolytes was far more of a challenge than hunting civilians. The acolytes were still Sith, after all: they would know to be wary, making them more challenging targets than innocent people just going about their daily lives.

Let the hunt begin!

He chose _not_ to stalk through the city like the predator he was, though. That would draw far too much attention. Instead, Zavahier played the role of the curious Sith apprentice, the newcomer to Dromund Kaas who was still finding his feet and learning his way around the city. He strolled through the marketplace, pausing to look at items for sale. He wandered into buildings just to look around – and when asked what he was doing, that was the explanation he gave: “Just exploring.”

Most people didn’t even ask. Who was going to question a Sith?

Zavahier followed an acolyte into a quiet side road. The acolyte kept looking over his shoulder, appropriately wary of the Sith ambling fifteen metres behind him. But Zavahier ignored him, instead choosing to pause to examine his surroundings. Here was a rock, part of the valley in which Kaas City had been built, and weren’t those striations interesting? There was a large window displaying some of the goods sold by the shop behind it. Oh, and wasn’t that monument to some ancient Sith Lord fascinating? Eventually the acolyte decided that Zavahier _wasn’t_ following him, but was in fact just heading in the same direction.

And that was when Zavahier pointed the tagging device at the acolyte’s back and fired it. The tag clung to the acolyte’s clothing, too small and light for him to have even felt its impact. The road connected to another one, and when the acolyte turned left, Zavahier turned right, wandering off in search of another acolyte.

This game kept him busy for several hours. It wasn’t just a matter of finding the Sith acolytes, but also of finding the right opportunity to tag them without being seen. After carefully following two more acolytes, he found an easier approach; a short distance from the Kaas City Academy was a small cantina with several outdoor tables. Zavahier ordered food and drink, and then sat down, making a bit of a show of reading his datapad. Then all he had to do was wait for an acolyte to walk past, and surreptitiously tag them, with the device mostly hidden beneath the sleeve of his robes.

It was the perfect way of avoiding suspicion. He was Sith, and could eat at whatever cantina he liked. He wasn’t following any acolytes around, they were simply walking past him, and in relatively large numbers as they were sent out of the Academy on various tasks. Zavahier didn’t tag _every_ acolyte. Most of them he left untouched, so as to conceal his activities still further. But any acolyte he deemed either to be strong enough to one day become a rival or weak enough to be unworthy of life, he tagged.

Once he felt he’d tagged enough acolytes, and had also finished his meal, he left the cantina, and after a few moments of thought, he continued his explorations of the city. He wasn’t sure how long it would take for the acolytes to be attacked, but he was quite sure he didn’t want to be there when it happened, and he _also_ didn’t want to be seen near Renegin again so soon either.

Fortunately, there was still plenty of Kaas City to see. He went into the Sith Academy just to have a look around and compare it to the one on Korriban. The building itself was much smaller and newer, and overall, Zavahier considered it much less impressive; it served its purpose, but was definitely not as prestigious as the Korriban Academy. Of course, he’d known for a while that Korriban was the best, the Academy all potential Sith wanted to train at. But it was strange to see it for himself, and to realise that many Sith would be incredibly jealous of the education he’d received on Korriban. And yet he envied all the education _they_ had received from an early age. Training on Korriban had lessened the gap between him and the others, but it didn’t come close to eliminating it entirely. He was still catching up.

Zavahier moved on, and after a while, he began to suspect he was being followed. His senses prickled, and he could hear footsteps a little way behind him. His first assumption was that it was Renegin, or somebody else who had spotted him tagging the acolytes… but he couldn’t sense any impending danger. Someone was _observing_ him, but didn’t seem to intend him any harm. Zavahier didn’t risk looking over his shoulder to see who it was. Instead, he kept walking until he found a convenient empty side road, which he strolled into.

And then, rather than keep walking, he positioned himself by the entrance, his back pressed against the wall, so that when the person following him stepped into the alley, Zavahier was in the right position to ambush them; in a single fluid motion, he pinned his stalker against the wall with the Force and brought his lightsabre blade against the man’s throat.

“You have ten seconds to explain why you’re following me,” Zavahier growled.

“Minder Twenty, Imperial Intelligence. I just need a few seconds of your time,” the man replied as he shifted uncomfortably, trying to wriggle away from the glowing blade barely a centimetre from his neck.

“And stalking me is _just_ the way to get it,” Zavahier said, not feeling at all inclined to release him at all. “Are you spying on me?”

“No!” Minder Twenty insisted. “I actually need your help with something.”

Zavahier hesitated for a moment, then lowered his lightsabre and stepped back. “I think you have the wrong person,” he said, eyeing the man warily.

“Not at all. Our files are very thorough,” Minder Twenty said.

“Really? What’s in my file?” Zavahier asked, his curiosity briefly distracting him. But when Minder Twenty didn’t offer a response, he quickly moved on. “What do you want?”

“You are a new face on Dromund Kaas, and you’ve been wandering around the city all day. That presents a unique opportunity, and a small window in which to use it,” Minder Twenty explained. “I need you to meet a man. Go where he says and do what he asks. There is little danger, but you must not question him.”

Zavahier’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, and he was unable to figure out what – if any – ulterior motive was at play here. But he could sense no deception in the Intelligence officer. Only a hint of fear, a natural response to being threatened by a Sith, and an overwhelming sense of duty. “Alright, I’ll play your game,” he said after several moments. “But if this is some sort of setup, I’ll hunt you down and kill you.”

“Of course, my lord,” Minder Twenty said, as if he hadn’t expected anything else. “The man is named Manda, and he is in a local cantina. Tell him the Lord of Sorrow sent you. Good luck. We will not speak again.”

And without further ado, Minder Twenty hurried away, leaving behind a thoroughly bemused Zavahier. He really wasn’t entirely sure what to make of this. It seemed that every single member of Imperial Intelligence were completely _weird_, and their attitudes towards the Sith were quite unlike those of other people in the Empire. They were less intimidated, and more convinced of their ability to manipulate others. Minder Twenty hadn’t questioned for a moment that Zavahier would do as he asked, not because he had been ordered to, but because his sense of curiosity made it quite impossible for him to _not_ seek out this ‘Manda’.

Zavahier’s file probably said something to that effect, didn’t it? That he couldn’t be commanded, but that his thirst for knowledge and adventure could be manipulated.

Well, he would have to put a stop to _that_. Zavahier didn’t want _anyone_ to be able to predict him. If Imperial Intelligence knew what he was going to do, then they had the potential to _stop_ him if they disagreed with his decisions. That was clearly unacceptable. And it certainly wasn’t outside the realms of possibility that this was all a trap; just because Minder Twenty hadn’t been personally aware of it didn’t mean somebody in authority over him wasn’t plotting Zavahier’s demise.

So he would be prepared for anything, including an ambush… even if he was still driven by a need to find out exactly what was going on here. Preventing his inquisitive nature being taken advantage of was going to be a challenge, given that an unsolved mystery or a gap in his knowledge bothered him so much. He couldn’t _not_ investigate.

But in an odd way, it was still fun, wasn’t it? If it _was_ a trap of some kind, then he’d have just as much fun dismembering everybody involved as he would playing whatever game this was supposed to be. Imperial Intelligence were definitely up to something, and the only way to find out what was to do as they asked. His curiosity couldn’t be used against him when he walked willingly into whatever trap had been set. Knowing it was there was half the battle.

It didn’t take long for Zavahier to locate Manda inside a nearby cantina, and after a brief conversation, Manda gave him a gambling chip and instructed him to seek out a Chiss officer outside the bank. He too didn’t take long to find, and Zavahier was given a package to deliver to an MK-line droid in an alley on the western side of Kaas City. The warning of, “Do not open the package. Better if you don’t even look at it,” became an incredibly difficult recommendation to follow, and Zavahier almost opened it out of general principle… before realising that this was _exactly_ the kind of thing someone wanting to exploit his curiosity would do. There was probably a bomb in there or something.

So he resisted the temptation to open the package, and after deciding that it in fact probably _was_ a bomb, he even managed to hold himself back from giving it an experimental shake. He would just deliver it to the MK droid and prove that Imperial Intelligence were incapable of getting him to blow himself up.

That would show them!

MK-RU was waiting exactly where the Chiss officer said it would be, and it was indistinguishable from most of the other protocol droids Zavahier had dealt with. If he hadn’t known which droid he was looking for, he probably would have walked straight past it.

“I have a package for you,” Zavahier said as he approached the droid, holding out the unopened and unshaken box.

“For me? How wonderful,” the droid replied, managing to affect a tone of pleasant surprise. “And I, in turn, have something for you. To show appreciation. If we have not caught the Republic’s attention with this sequence, they simply aren’t paying attention. Empire forever.”

MK-RU gave Zavahier a credit chip, and then scuttled off with the package. The whole series of events were… well, somewhat confusing, actually, and Zavahier had absolutely no idea exactly _what_ he had just participated in. Had all of this been a test, to see if he could resist opening the bomb-package? Or had Imperial Intelligence merely taken advantage of the fact that his meandering through the city had been random enough that any Republic spies would consider his movements irrelevant?

He really had no idea. And annoyingly, he also thought he would probably never know.

He hated that!

Zavahier briefly considered storming into Imperial Intelligence’s headquarters to demand answers, but decided against it. He was curious, yes, but he wasn’t going to let it control him. By _not_ coercing Intelligence into answering, he was proving they couldn’t use his curiosity against him. And perhaps that was enough of a victory for him.

And now, finally, he returned to Renegin, feeling that enough time had passed, and also that Imperial Intelligence had provided him with a decent enough cover for his movements throughout the city that he couldn’t be implicated in the attacks on the acolytes.

Oh!

Maybe _that_ had been a factor in Minder Twenty seeking him out, too? Minder Sixteen had mentioned that Imperial Intelligence would be watching his investigation, after all, so perhaps they had given him that errand to protect him from blame when the acolytes were attacked. If he was running an errand for Intelligence, then obviously he couldn’t be responsible for the attacks on the acolytes. It certainly added a new layer of complexity to the whole puzzle, and Zavahier _still_ couldn’t be sure what had really happened. But it was good practice, he thought. Playing these games prepared him for a future of cut-throat plotting and politics.

Renegin was smiling when Zavahier reached him. “My clients already ambushed one of the acolytes you tagged. Wish I coulda been there,” he said enthusiastically. “Attacking a Sith is a major crime – even for other Sith. I sent the authorities an anonymous tip to watch the acolytes closely. When my clients jumped the ones tagged, they were arrested, and I hear they’re going to be executed. Best work I’ve done in a long time.”

“Me too,” Zavahier agreed, unable to resist smiling as well. Getting some of his fellow Sith in trouble was definitely enjoyable, even if he hadn’t had the chance to see their executions himself.

“In this job, I don’t get much chance to feel like I did the right thing. But I’m glad we could work together on this – ‘cause I sure didn’t want to fight you,” Renegin said.

“It was a pleasure working with you, too. You know, I think you’ve managed to change my mind about Mandalorians as well,” Zavahier said. After the Mandalorians in the jungle had injured Shâsot, he’d been inclined to believe the whole lot of them were completely useless and unworthy of any respect. But right here and now, he had to admit that Renegin had somewhat impressed him by being willing to risk going against the Sith who’d employed him. That took courage. And it suggested that maybe some Mandalorians _could_ be useful to him. He would keep that in mind for the future.

“Thanks, I guess?” Renegin replied, a little uncertainly. “Wrightsyn oughta shut up, now that the killers have been caught. That should make life easier. I’m just glad the acolytes weren’t hurt. Got enough blood on my hands as it is.”

“So what will you do now?” Zavahier asked.

“I’m getting off this planet while I have the chance. But here, take these credits,” Renegin said, placing a handful of credit chips into Zavahier’s hand. “Couldn’t have pulled this off without you. See you around, friend…”


	16. Hunting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier needs to practice his skills on any suitable target.

Several days passed almost entirely without incident. Tifati and her master were two of the Sith that had been playing the hunting game, and both had been executed the day before. This had become quite the topic of discussion with Caider, Âyihsai and Janzem, and Zavahier had been required to pretend he knew nothing about it. He had expressed surprise that they had attacked Sith acolytes seemingly without good reason, and agreed with Âyihsai that it was all very strange. But otherwise he had just shrugged and said it wasn’t really his problem.

Rather than socialise with his fellow apprentices – none of whom he liked all that much – Zavahier spent a great deal of time in the Citadel’s library, consulting with the holocron of Darth Idalis, an expert in Sith sorcery. Through the holocron’s tutelage, Zavahier had, he hoped, perfected the technique of creating terrifying auditory hallucinations. He had attempted it once before on Karroh, and it had turned out rather badly. But now he understood the theory much better, as well as the language in which the spell was spoken.

He tried it out on an unsuspecting Mandalorian passing by the Citadel, and watched in delight as the man panicked and fled from the threats of death whispered directly into his ears. The words alone wouldn’t have been too frightening to an experienced hunter… but the fact they came from nowhere, and were filled with all the dark malevolence Zavahier could summon, was more than enough to overwhelm the Mandalorian’s lesser willpower.

Yes, the Mandalorians certainly were proving to be more useful than he’d originally thought.

Somewhat regrettably, he couldn’t experiment on them too overtly, nor could he use them as target practice for his more destructive Force abilities. But he successfully terrorised several more with his most subtle powers, inflicting hallucinations or simply filling their hearts with irrational terror drawn from the dark side itself. Zavahier was careful to hold himself back from using the full extent of his power, because driving the Mandalorians insane with fear would draw too much unwanted attention. But terrorising them for a few minutes, until they fled out of range, was enough to prove that he understood the underlying principles of these techniques, even if he couldn’t use them to their fullest extent.

Zavahier played with the Mind Trick as well. He had never been able to practice it on Korriban, since even the weakest of acolytes had enough strength in the Force to resist it. But Kaas City was _full_ of weak-willed people, and while Zavahier started with relatively harmless persuasions – “You want to get out of my way,” and “You want to give me a discount on these robes,” – he soon began indulging a desire for mischief, coercing people into mimicking an Orobird or throwing their drink over a passing stranger.

His efforts culminated in ‘persuading’ a Mandalorian to shed his armour and run naked through the streets.

The resulting chaos as the naked Mandalorian ran through the central plaza, piling into a group of soldiers marching down the street, completely ruining their neat formation, was highly entertaining, and Zavahier was about to coax several more Mandalorians into following suit when he was interrupted by an old but incredibly powerful looking Darth with red robes and dark grey hair.

“Don’t you have anything better to do than torment bounty hunters, slave?” the man asked, giving him a very, _very_ disapproving glare.

Zavahier thought for a moment, and quickly realised that there really weren’t any right answers. Not for someone who saw a misbehaving slave rather than an apprentice who was just trying to _practice_.

So he might as well give a _wrong_ answer.

“Well, I thought about practising on civilians, but I decided the Mandalorians were much more disposable,” Zavahier said.

The Darth’s gaze darkened. “You bring shame to the Sith with your juvenile games. Be gone!”

Sensing danger – the threat of death – if he didn’t remove himself from the Darth’s sight immediately, Zavahier fled, focusing more on escaping the Darth’s wrath than on where he was going. He ended up in an alley on the other side of the central plaza, and he ducked into the shadows, pressing his back against the wall. He was more annoyed than frightened, really. Annoyed with the Darth for intervening – and for calling him ‘slave’ – and annoyed with himself for so easily being driven away.

He hadn’t _really_ been doing any harm.

And what was the point of freedom if he couldn’t do what he liked?

The obvious solution was to head out into the wilderness beyond the city walls and find something he _could_ use his powers on with impunity. If nothing else, there would be some jungle beasts he could practice his Force techniques on. It was still a little irritating, of course. Zavahier couldn’t become stronger without using his abilities, and animals weren’t really an adequate test of his ability to influence the minds of sentient beings. Being held back by the lack of suitable targets on Dromund Kaas – when on Korriban he’d been free to murder other acolytes, just as long as he didn’t actually get _caught_ – was frustrating.

Well, perhaps that had been his mistake here. Not experimenting on the Mandalorians, but doing so in such a blatant way that his actions had drawn attention from someone much more powerful.

He needed to be more subtle.

But Zavahier also had to remind himself that he’d only been Sith a few months. He was vastly more powerful now than he had been as a slave. He was certainly stronger than most of the other Sith he’d met. Excluding Darth Skotia, and the Darth who’d chased him away from the Mandalorians. But that was temporary. He would gather more power and become stronger. And he wasn’t going to accept even for a _moment_ that there was anything he couldn’t do. He _would_ master every spell and Force ability he set his mind to, and _nobody_ was going to stop him.

One day, the disapproving stares of Darths wouldn’t be enough to make him look for victims elsewhere.

But for the time being, Zavahier made his way into the jungle outside of Kaas City. He went alone; Shâsot was still recovering from his injuries, and Zavahier had sent Khem on a mission to the home of Lord Rhuzai, a Sith who had the misfortune to have withdrawn a holocron from the library that Zavahier had wanted to study. Sending Khem to deal with him was preferable to waiting for Rhuzai to return the holocron. Because then Zavahier could _keep_ the holocron, and Rhuzai – if he survived Khem, which was unlikely – would get the blame for losing it.

Zavahier would have preferred to kill Rhuzai himself, of course. But he wasn’t yet sure of his ability to defeat a Sith Lord, and he knew Khem definitely _could_. And he thought keeping Khem busy would both give the Dashade plenty of Force-users to devour, as well as distract him from attempting to break free of the bond between them. If Khem succeeded in his mission, then Zavahier would have a powerful holocron all to himself. If Khem was defeated, then Zavahier would no longer have to worry about betrayal. Whatever happened, he would come out ahead, and that was the whole point.

It meant he had to venture into the jungle alone, however. But that too wasn’t a problem. Having no back up, having to face danger alone, would push him to grow stronger. He didn’t want to become too reliant on Khem’s strength.

Rather than following the same road that had brought him to the city, Zavahier took a smaller path that went deeper into the jungle, believing that he would be more likely to find suitable prey further away from the main thoroughfare between the spaceport and Kaas City. This particular path was narrow and winding, with thick undergrowth encroaching on it from both sides, and hanging vines dangling from the tree branches above.

Zavahier didn’t get far before the first predator attacked him, leaping out of the bushes as he stepped around a fallen tree. He cut it down with his lightsabre, taking pleasure in the beast’s cry of pain as it died… and the fact that he was growing more confident in the use of his own weapon.

He’d let others convince him that he was a poor duellist because he wasn’t as physically imposing as Sith who’d never been starved to keep them in line, and because the more aggressive lightsabre forms didn’t suit him; he favoured the quick and precise Makashi form, which many other Sith considered insufficiently damaging and thus not worth learning. And he would never be as good with a lightsabre as Karroh. But that didn’t mean he was completely incompetent. Every time he used his weapon, he learned more about how it moved, how it behaved, and how to adjust his own movements in response to the unpredictable nature of the lightsabre blade. Just like everything else in his life, the more he practised, the stronger he became.

He expected to encounter more jungle beasts in need of killing, but the path he followed soon took him into a small clearing in which several large tents stood. It appeared to be a camp of some kind, and Zavahier half expected to find Mandalorians there, since hunting in the depths of the jungle seemed like something they would so. Instead, however, he found Imperial officers. And as he entered the camp, he realised one of them was yelling.

“Useless bureaucrats! Let them come here and do my job for a while…” the man shouted, clearly frustrated.

“Do I have a sign on my robes saying ‘please yell at me’?” Zavahier asked.

“Uh, forgive me, my lord. I—I didn’t see you there,” the man said hurriedly as he took a step back.

Yes, Zavahier seemed to have that effect on a lot of people, didn’t he? He had to admit he rather liked it. He managed to be intimidating just by _existing_. Not intimidating enough to make people to stop yelling their problems at him, though. Should he be annoyed about that? It was a little irritating to constantly have people coming to him to solve their various crises, and yet… Well, such challenges strengthened him, while also cultivating a good working relationship with the military. Even though he didn’t like being shouted at, at least it proved that they looked up to him as a leader.

“I’m Sergeant Molcarrus, Third Recon Company,” the man introduced himself after realising that Zavahier wasn’t about to actually do him any harm. “Are you here about the bounty on the jungle predators?”

“No,” Zavahier replied flatly. “What bounty?”

“Sorry, my lord. I was hoping someone in your Order had heard about our situation,” Molcarrus said. “I’ve been in charge of protecting the slaves from predators since my superior was gored by one. There are too many beasts for us to handle. I requested assistance from Kaas City, but all they did was put a bounty on the jungle creatures, which hasn’t helped us at all.”

“Really? I’m not sure I see why not,” Zavahier said, genuinely surprised that a bounty – presumably with a payment of credits – would have failed to convince someone to deal with the jungle beasts.

“The only people who responded to the bounty were a pair of Mandalorians who promptly got themselves eaten,” Molcarrus said.

“I’m willing to assist,” Zavahier offered. He had come out here in search of things to kill anyway, hadn’t he? Getting _paid_ for it was just an added bonus.

“I’ll take any help you’re willing to give. I can’t do this job with the resources they’ve given me. Poor slaves… I hear their screams when the creatures drag them away. Even offworlders don’t deserve to die like that,” Molcarrus said. “If you could thin out the predator population, it would make a huge difference for us.”

Well, that definitely made the decision for Zavahier. He didn’t like the idea of slaves – people in the same situation he’d been in only a few months previously – being eaten by monsters they had no way of defending themselves against. Perhaps that wasn’t an appropriately _Sith_ attitude to take. The Sith philosophy was that anybody not strong enough to defend themselves deserved to die. A philosophy that Zavahier generally agreed with… except when it came to slaves. They were forced into a position of helplessness. And if the Empire had assigned Molcarrus and the rest of the Third Recon Company to protect them, then it meant somebody wanted the slaves alive. Therefore, as Sith, Zavahier could choose to help if he wanted to. There was no weakness in protecting the Empire’s property.

_Not_ property.

Definitely not that.

Just because the law viewed slaves as such, didn’t mean _Zavahier_ would. They were people, just like he was. And they didn’t deserve to be eaten.

“Very well, I’ll kill the monsters for you,” Zavahier said.

“Thank you, my lord. When you kill the jungle predators, take the proof to Administrator Reese in Kaas City. She’s paying the bounties on them,” Molcarrus said.

Zavahier responded with a smile, that wonderful feeling of mischief – frustrated by that Darth’s disapproval – resurfacing with a vengeance. He had an idea. “This is going to be so much fun.”

Leaving Molcarrus looking distinctly uneasy, Zavahier walked to the edge of the camp, and he stood there beneath the trees. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the jungle around him, and stretched out his senses, using the Force to locate the beasts hiding nearby. He wouldn’t simply wait for them to attack him. Today, he was the hunter. He would find them, and he would kill them. He sent out a ripple through the Force, a dark surge of malevolent intent, knowing it would frighten the predators. It would make them into prey.

And then Zavahier set out into the jungle, striding away from the path to seek out his victims wherever they were hiding. He felt that his pulse of dark energy had served its purpose. He could _feel_ the fear in the usually aggressive monsters, like beacons of emotion in the midst of the dark, wet forest. It made finding the beasts easy. And killing them even more so. The beasts couldn’t think properly when Zavahier’s dark presence in the Force was pressing against their minds, and they simply stared at him with wide, frightened eyes, watching as death came for them and not even lifting a claw to protect themselves.

So he took the opportunity to practice his sorcery, drawing out the beasts’ worst fears and manifesting them as aural and visual hallucinations. It was easier than doing the same to humans; the predators had very basic fears; of starvation, of death, of being attacked by a rival. Stirring them up into a frenzy of terror didn’t take much, and then he turned them against each other, watching in pleasure as the jungle beasts tore each other to shreds. Others he destroyed with bolts of dark energy, crushing internal organs and shattering bones.

They might not be much of a challenge, but Zavahier didn’t hold back. He’d been forced to restrain himself within the city, and he hadn’t enjoyed that feeling at all. Something about Dromund Kaas made him restless, and it felt as though the only way to release that agitation was by _using_ his powers, not bottling them up.

And didn’t that just feel _wonderful?_

To be powerful. To know that no being – man or beast – could stop him. To tear his prey apart simply because he could.

What Zavahier was left with by the time he was done wasn’t so much a pile of animal carcasses as a large number of mangled and severed pieces, many of which were completely unrecognisable as the Vine Cats, Yozusks and Gundarks that they had once been. But that served his purposes well enough, so he picked through them, selecting the ones that were intact enough to prove that they had in fact all once been individual animals. All the Yozusk horns, Vine Cat tails and Gundark ears were separated from the other remains, and carried back to the camp so that Zavahier could wrap them in a large piece of canvas. Molcarrus looked suitably impressed with just how many beasts Zavahier had managed to slaughter.

But the soldier wasn’t the one Zavahier ultimately needed to satisfy; he returned to Kaas City with his wrapped bundle, and made his way directly to the bounty office in the western square. The effect when he walked into Administrator Reese’s office and deposited the bundle of bloody monster pieces onto her desk was immediate – and highly amusing. At first the young woman acknowledged him with a look and a nod. Then she sniffed. And then she wrinkled her nose, and her face visibly whitened.

“What… what is that disgusting stench? Oh, by the stars! What are you doing with all those rotting animal parts?” Reese asked incredulously, her face twisted in revulsion. She even retched, and put her hand in front of her mouth.

The various pieces Zavahier had collected _did_ smell pretty terrible. But he’d spent his whole life dealing with powerful odours – mostly his own, since slaves were often not afforded much opportunity to bathe – so he could handle it better than Reese could.

She seemed to realise she was speaking to a Sith, too, and hurriedly added, “Er… no offense, my lord. I… I’m not sure what’s going on. Why would you bring all these carcasses into my office?”

Because it was funny?

Because she had foolishly asked for proof of the beasts’ destruction without realising just how pungent the resulting body parts would be?

Zavahier opted for a more typically Sith approach. “Your work camp had a problem. I was the solution. You _did_ request these.”

Reese took a moment to absorb this. “You… you did this for the bounty on the jungle predators? I… I didn’t expect anyone to be this… thorough.”

“I was bored,” Zavahier said simply, as though that were explanation enough.

“You must be quite skilled to have slaughtered all these creatures,” Reese said, before reaching into her desk to retrieve a credit chip, which she passed to Zavahier. “The Empire is… uh… grateful for the extraordinary lengths you went to. Enjoy your reward. I’ll take these beast parts and put them… anywhere but here. Thank you for your help.”

Feeling rather satisfied with his day’s work, Zavahier left the bundle of Yozusk horns, Vine Cat tails and Gundark ears on Reese’s desk, and left the office building with a little smile on his face. Disposing of the body parts wasn’t his problem. She had asked for proof, and he had provided it. The fact that she hadn’t thought it through properly wasn’t _his_ responsibility. Just because he was willing to assist when someone asked for his help didn’t mean he wouldn’t uphold one of the finest traditions of slavery: malicious compliance.

But more than his sense of amusement and mischief, there was the knowledge that his actions would likely save the lives of the remaining slaves under Molcarrus’ command. That felt rather nice; if Zavahier could entertain himself, use the full extent of his powers _and_ assist the Empire, all at the same time, then he’d know he was doing the right thing. And it would make him a better Sith than most, if his experiences with other Sith were any indication of the Order as a whole. All of those thoughts were pleasant, creating a feeling of warmth in his chest, and he returned to his home with a bounce in his step.

Yes, Zavahier really did feel pretty pleased with himself.


	17. Back To Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier begins work on the next stage of the plan.

Zavahier was woken the next morning when Khem returned from his mission to Lord Rhuzai’s estate… and informed him that the holoterminal had apparently been beeping for quite a while. So he quickly pulled on the nearest set of robes, went barefooted into the lounge, and answered the waiting call. Zash greeted him with a smile and a cheerful ‘good morning’, yet her bright and chipper attitude _this _early in the morning was a little too much for him, and he merely grunted in response. Fortunately, the conversation was brief, for fear that the message would be intercepted: he was to report to Zash’s office in the Citadel as soon as possible. Picking up a sense of urgency in his master, despite her pleasant tone, Zavahier readied himself as quickly as he could and after grabbing some fruit for a quick breakfast from the kitchen, he made his way to the Citadel with Khem walking by his side.

It was still so early in the morning that the sun had barely risen above the horizon – not that it was even visible behind Dromund Kaas’ heavy cover of cloud – and Zavahier shivered with the cold. But the streets of Kaas City were quiet, and the Sith Sanctum too was almost completely deserted. That meant fewer ears to hear what Zash had to say. That was probably the point.

But he would have much preferred another hour or two in bed. In his time on Korriban, Zavahier had gotten into the habit of taking short naps whenever he was tired – necessary for his survival when his poor physical condition had left him without sufficient stamina to train all day without any rest – and he was struggling to adapt to a more typical routine, the frequent short naps now more a matter of preference than necessity. Zavahier had spent most of the night reading, and had only finally gone to bed a few hours before Zash called.

Zash was waiting for him in her office, sitting on the edge of her desk rather than behind it, and she pushed herself away from it when Zavahier walked in. They met in the middle of the room, and Zash gave him a smile. “Wonderful, you’re here, Ezerdus. I hope you’ve been settling in alright?”

“I have,” Zavahier said with a nod, and then, after a moment of silence, he added, “I like the apartment.”

“Good! I’m glad you like it!” Zash replied happily, utterly undeterred by Zavahier’s current lack of enthusiasm.

How did she do it?

How did she _constantly _manage to be so cheerful all the time?

It was _almost_ as unnatural as the lack of emotion in the Jedi.

Nobody should be _this_ happy.

It was thoroughly wrong, especially for a Sith.

“Now, I believe I’ve pieced together enough information that we can start working on Darth Skotia’s demise—” Zash began.

“You mean _I _can start working. Sounds like you relax while I do your dirty work,” Zavahier said, working on the assumption that whatever needed to be done was going to involve him going on some dangerous and difficult excursion while Zash stayed here in the comfort of her office. The thought of an adventure would be much more appealing a bit later in the morning. He knew that. And he also knew that this was a normal life for a Sith apprentice, running errands that his master was unable or unwilling to do herself. Zavahier knew he ought to be grateful that he wasn’t being sent to fetch her breakfast, as Harkun had so often made him do. But he was still sleepy, and therefore going to be irritable no matter what Zash said.

“Dear apprentice, where I go, you go. If I go up, you come with me,” Zash assured him, and she placed her hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “Meanwhile, I must make plans for when we get there.”

That brief moment of contact was not particularly reassuring; a knot of unease writhed in Zavahier’s stomach. Something about Zash’s touch that felt… strange. Wrong. Unsettling. His first instinct was to pull away, but he pushed that urge aside and remained still. Yet Zash didn’t even reprimand him for assuming she wasn’t going to do her part; she was probably getting used to the fact that he just wasn’t as cheerful or optimistic as she was. Or she knew that the touch of her hand on his shoulder had made him uncomfortable, and that was enough punishment for accusing her, once again, of not being willing to do her share of the hard work.

One day Zavahier would learn to watch his tongue around his master. But he didn’t particularly want to. He’d spent his whole life in fear of what his owner would do whenever he stepped out of line, and he wasn’t about to let his relationship with Zash take a similar tone. So he would say what he liked, even at the cost of displeasing her.

There was a few moments of awkward silence, where Zash watched him expectantly. Eventually, Zavahier was forced to fill the silence and do what Zash expected of him, much to his displeasure. “So what do you want me to do?”

“Out in the jungle, a group of slaves has recently revolted. They were working on a colossal statue that has since gone unfinished,” Zash said. “I believe Skotia is hiding something of great importance near this statue. Get the archaeological plans to the area from one of the slaves and contact me by holocommunicator.”

Zavahier was pretty sure he knew _exactly_ what Zash was doing, and he didn’t like it. She was sending him against slaves, likely knowing of his reluctance to hurt them. They probably had absolutely nothing relating to Skotia in their possession at all, and this was all about forcing him to kill people that he empathised with. It was the one weakness he still had, wasn’t it? A sympathy for the plight of the Empire’s slaves, which manifested itself as an unwillingness to slaughter them, even if they _were_ rebelling against their masters.

Well, why _shouldn’t_ they rebel?

Zavahier’s understanding of the misery many slaves lived in, combined with his instincts as a Sith, told him that if they were strong enough to mount a successful rebellion, then that was exactly what they _should_ do.

Yet the obvious extension of that thought was that if Zavahier was strong enough to quell that rebellion, then he should.

That was the Sith way.

But more than that, Zash was testing his ability to turn his back on his origins. To be truly Sith, he should be ready to kill _anyone_ he had to, no matter how he might feel about them. If they were in the way, they had to die.

All of this was perfectly clear to Zavahier.

And he _really_ didn’t like it.

Simply saying ‘no’, refusing to play this little game with Zash, was more than a little tempting. Yet despite all the power he had obtained, Zavahier didn’t quite think he was at the point of being able to overthrow his master.

Not yet.

So he would do what he had to. If she wanted him to kill slaves, then he would. It didn’t mean he had to be happy about it. It didn’t mean he had to enjoy it.

But he tried to mask his true feelings, hiding them behind a wall of confidence and a desire for adventure. Those were familiar emotions, appropriate to the task Zash had set him, though they were less easily drawn on than his usual combination of rage and fear. What mattered most was concealing his reluctance to use his strength against his own kind. That’s what the slaves were. Zavahier might have his freedom now, and he may have cast aside his weaker slave traits in favour of the strength and determination of a Sith… but deep down, there was a part of him that would always be a slave. That part of him disgusted him. _Weakness_ disgusted him. But he had no family. His mother and father were dead. He had no siblings. Other slaves were the closest thing to kin he had.

Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, Khem pushed his past Zavahier, advancing on Zash with a clearly aggressive intent; his deep-set orange eyes were narrowed, and his clawed hand reached for Zash’s throat. “This witch stinks of death. Give me the command and I will devour her,” he growled menacingly.

Zash bristled as well, preparing to defend herself from attack by reaching for her lightsabre.

There was but a moment for Zavahier to react. To let the Dashade devour his master, or to intervene. He chose the latter. When the time came for Zash to die, he wanted to do it himself. And he wanted the artefacts of Tulak Hord, and Zash was the only one who had all the information he needed. So she had to live… for now.

With an irritated growl, Zavahier pushed his way between Khem and Zash, swatting at the Dashade’s outstretched hand. An angry pulse of Force energy escaped him. Zash deflected it with a wave of her hand, not moving from where she stood, and Khem simply absorbed it. But it was enough to make his intentions clear; without speaking a word, he’d communicated to _both_ of them that he was annoyed and wasn’t going to let them fight. Zavahier gave Zash a sharp glare, then turned his gaze to Khem, then back to Zash, challenging them both to dare to disobey him.

Much to his surprise, both Zash and Khem backed down, and stepped away from each other.

He hadn’t actually been expecting that to work.

“Come on,” Zavahier snapped at Khem, beckoning for the Dashade to follow him. He led the way out of Zash’s office, down the corridor, and around another corner. Only once he was sure they were well and truly out of Zash’s earshot did he stop and turn to face Khem. “What was _that_ about?”

“There is something unnatural about her,” Khem said firmly. “She smells like something dead.”

Zavahier hadn’t smelled anything of the sort – and he’d smelled enough dead things to be more than familiar with that particular scent – but he thought Khem wasn’t being entirely literal. Hadn’t he sensed something odd when Zash had touched his shoulder? ‘Death’ did seem to be the right word for it. Yet it was such a stark contrast to Zash’s youthful appearance and buoyant demeanour. It didn’t make sense.

“We need her alive. At least until I have those artefacts. I know you think I’m unworthy of Tulak Hord’s power, but can we at least agree that it’s better if _I _have the artefacts than Zash?” Zavahier asked.

Khem seemed to give this a little thought, and then he nodded. “Yes, I can agree to that, little Sith.”

“Right. So no more trying to eat Zash until we have what we want,” Zavahier said firmly, making it a command that he expected Khem to obey.

“That is not the only reason I stepped in, little Sith,” Khem said. “You hide your true feelings poorly. The witch could see you do not like the task she set you. So I created a distraction. I angered you, knowing that would better mask your emotions.”

Oh.

That announcement stunned Zavahier into silence, because that _really_ wasn’t what he’d been expecting to hear. Not only was the bond between him and Khem strong enough for the Dashade to sense the emotions he was trying to hide, but that Khem actually cared enough to intervene when it seemed Zavahier wasn’t hiding them well enough.

And he wasn’t really sure what to say to that.

Well…

“Thank you, I suppose,” Zavahier said at last. Khem had suggested on several occasions that he no longer utterly despised him, but the idea that he was actively _helping_ was still a little too strange for Zavahier to completely accept without question. He gave the Dashade a long, scrutinising look, before turning away. “Let’s go and find this huge statue, shall we?”

“Of course, little Sith,” Khem said simply.

Zavahier got the distinct impression that Zash wasn’t the only one who wanted to see how he handled the slave revolt: Khem was just as curious about it himself. Nothing short of violence was going to placate either of them. Only then would he prove that he had truly left his slave background far behind.

He had practiced concealing his emotions, but clearly he needed to do better, if he wanted to do what he had to without anybody knowing just how much he really didn’t want to do it.

As Zavahier led the way out of the Citadel, listening to Khem’s heavy footsteps several metres behind him, he couldn’t help but feel that no matter how well he learned to mark his emotions, Khem would always know how he really felt. That was the problem with Force bonds. There was a connection between him and the Dashade, and while this had its advantages – namely, not becoming Khem’s next meal – it had its drawbacks as well. A lack of privacy was definitely one of them.

He was used to a lack of physical privacy, of course. The slave pens had been distinctly short of individual rooms to sleep in, and the barracks in the Academy had not been much better. But this lack of mental and emotional privacy was another matter entirely. And this wasn’t the first time he’d had problems with it, either; Karroh had always been able to read his emotions with surprising ease as well.

Clearly Zavahier needed to do something about this. His passions made him strong, and he had an endless supply of them to draw on. But he was also beginning to realise how quickly his emotions could betray him if other Sith knew too much about what he was feeling. He had been trained to let his emotions flow freely, and he still wanted to do that; repressing them would deny him power. But he still needed to learn how to _hide_ them from his enemies.

And Zash _was_ an enemy, no matter how much she might like to pretend otherwise.

Zavahier had some experience with masking his feelings, of course. He hadn’t really been _taught_ how to do it, but had learned it instinctively, as did any Sith who was driven by the desire to survive. He didn’t think he was _that_ bad at it, though there certainly had been times when his anger had been so intense that his violent intentions had been impossible to hide. But he had successfully fooled Yadira Ban into thinking he was afraid, and he had hidden his true intentions from other acolytes at the Academy.

But this had been different. It was the thought of going up against slaves that had unsettled him enough that he hadn’t been able to conceal it from Zash. _That_ was his weak point. Slavery. He would always be sensitive to it, and his feelings on it would always be clear.

And that was when Zavahier realised what he needed to do: rather than mask those feelings, he would _use_ them. Let other Sith use his past to unsettle him. That unease would empower him, and as an intense and genuine emotion that he could always call upon, it would serve to conceal other emotions, just as his anger and fear could be used to hide those moments when he knew he had the power to succeed. If others believed they had made him uncomfortable, they would think they were in control of the situation. So they would not be expecting it when he killed them.

Zavahier would let Zash think that the topic of slavery was a button that could be pressed in order to manipulate him.

And he would let Khem think so too.

He resolved to pay closer attention to the bond between them, to study it in the hopes of gaining a greater understanding of the way his emotions were transmitted through it. Perhaps there was further information in the Citadel’s library, too. If he learned more about how the bond worked, he should be able to control how and when Khem was able to sense what he truly felt. One day Khem would move against him, and being able to hide his feelings and intentions from the Dashade would be essential to survive that inevitable betrayal.

Zavahier glanced over his shoulder at Khem, but there was no indication that he had picked up on any of these thoughts. Khem’s toothy face was impassive as ever.

Perhaps only the most intense and base emotions were clearly sent through the bond, and these more cunning, devious thoughts were not. There was little passion at play here, unless a strong desire to know more, to fully understand this twist of the Force that had bound them to each other, could be described as an emotion.

Now wasn’t _that_ a complicated question?

If there was one thing Zavahier had learned over the last few months, it was that turning his passion into destructive power was easy. But truly _understanding_ the Force, and all the intricate ways his emotions interacted with it, was a lot harder. It wasn’t just about studying specific techniques – the ways thoughts, words and gestures could become physical manifestations of raw passion – but about gaining a greater understanding of himself in the process. To be aware of his emotions, but not restrain or repress them. If he felt something, it was for a good reason, so he should embrace it… and turn it into something useful.

For so much of his life, he’d been filled with anger and fear, but had been powerless to actually take control of his fate. He’d railed ineffectively against slavery, stubbornly refusing to submit to his owner despite the painful consequences, and that had left its mark on him. Not just the scars on his neck and back, and the tattoo on his wrist, but a mark on his very _soul_. That mark would never disappear. It was a part of him. So he would accept it; all that lingering resentment that his true potential had been stifled for so long by a simple shock collar, the doubts about whether he would ever fully _belong_ in Imperial society, and the surge of insecurity that reared its head whenever someone reminded him of where he had come from.

These weren’t emotions to shy away from. He understood that now. _Truly_ understood it.

And _that_ was the key to mastering the dark side.

So it really was alright if Zash _knew_ slavery was a sensitive subject for him. If he was aware of it, she couldn’t use it against him.

And that meant he _would_ do this task, even if it meant killing slaves. He had killed his own father, had he not? So he shouldn’t balk at killing the only other kin he had. It wasn’t as though he shared a blood relationship with them, after all.

But first, Zavahier first returned to his apartment. It didn’t matter how urgent Zash thought this mission was. That was something he still questioned, anyway, since it was more likely a test of his willingness to kill slaves rather than an actual step forward in killing Darth Skotia. Maybe Zash thought that was a critical part of making him strong enough to take down a Darth. Maybe not.

Ultimately it didn’t matter.

Regardless of the intent behind this mission, Zavahier was going to do this _his_ way.

And he was going to be prepared.

He consulted the computer database to find out a little more about where he was going. The Colossus, as the unfinished statue had come to be called, stood some thirty kilometres from Kaas City. It was supposedly in honour of Darth Vowrawn, though how flattering the Dark Council member found it, given it had become the site of a substantial slave rebellion, was hard to say. The Colossus was just a pointless display of power and affluence, clearly intended to advance the position of whoever had commissioned it.

Zavahier still felt inclined to root for the slaves; he wouldn’t have enjoyed building a statue of a Sith Lord either. Sometimes the only pride a slave could have in their life was the knowledge that they were doing something useful. But that only went so far when working conditions were harsh and masters were unforgiving. That was the kind of thing only a former slave could understand. Otherwise there wouldn’t be rebellions, would there? If people who _owned _slaves really understood what it was like, they wouldn’t think cruelty was the way to stay in control.

Yes, he was definitely on the slaves’ side in this.

Perhaps he would help them demolish the statue. It had been a while since he’d had the opportunity to blow something up.

But first he needed to get there. Thirty kilometres was a long way, though there was a small outpost a little closer – perhaps twenty five kilometres outside the city. Realistically, that was a day’s travel, given he would be travelling through the jungle and he very much doubted the path was particularly good. He should expect rough terrain, fallen trees, mud… and the practically mandatory predator attacks, of course.

Make it two days just to get to the Colossus.

And two more days for the return journey, of course.

And although his physical condition had been improving steadily since gaining access to regular meals and learning how to use the Force to augment his abilities, he still doubted he could keep walking all day while fighting off hordes of monsters.

And probably a handful of overzealous Mandalorians. That practically went without saying.

And he should probably expect at least one Sith to ambush him, just because that hadn’t happened in a while.

And some soldiers driven insane by the dark side. It was kind of odd that he _hadn’t_ had to deal with that since arriving on Dromund Kaas.

Whenever he went a few days without anybody trying to murder him, it was time to start anticipating the next attempt on his life. And he thought he already knew where the next one would come from: despite Zash’s attempt at secrecy, he had to assume that Skotia knew where he was going, and would therefore send another pathetic apprentice after him.

Then, once he reached the Colossus, it would take time to determine that the rebelling slaves didn’t actually have the information Zash wanted.

Zavahier decided that he should prepare for a week long excursion. Make it two weeks, in fact, just in case. Since he would have Khem to help carry supplies, it probably wouldn’t do any harm to be _too_ prepared. This required a visit to a supply depot, where he stocked up on military rations and medpacs, as well as a tent and sleeping bags for him and Khem. He also took his new holocron, his datapad – loaded with several new books to read – and his journal; if he was going to be away for several weeks, he would need something to keep his mind occupied when he was resting or otherwise not engaged in destroying his enemies. All of these supplies were packed into a bag, which he instructed Khem to carry.

Next he went to the stables to fetch Shâsot – after checking with Doctor Renncol that the Tuk’ata was sufficiently healed to be able to accompany him – and he added two weeks’ worth of beast fodder to his supplies. While he fully expected to be attacked by enough people and monsters to keep Shâsot well fed, he also had to recognise the possibility that if he _didn’t_ take food for Shâsot, then absolutely _nothing _would attack him on the journey to the Colossus. Because that was how life worked.

“Going on a long journey?” Doctor Renncol asked.

“What gave it away?” Zavahier asked as he shoved the packages of beast fodder into Khem’s now rather full bag of supplies.

“The quantity of supplies your companion is carrying. May I suggest hiring a Dewback?” Renncol suggested.

Zavahier considered the suggestion, and then nodded. It made a certain amount of sense, as it would reduce Khem’s load – certainly a good thing if they _did _get into any fights. And riding to the Colossus would help conserve his strength for the inevitable slaughter once he got there. “Good idea.”

Renncol led him to the other side of the stables, where a number of Dewbacks occupied a row of stalls. Zavahier looked at each one, not really knowing enough about them to make an informed decision over which one was best. They all seemed pretty docile, even in his presence, suggesting they had been acclimatised to the aura of dark power that surrounded so many Sith. But which one should he hire? Did it even really matter?

And then Zavahier reached the end of the row, and the moment he saw the last Dewback, he knew it was the one he wanted. It was a little smaller than the others, and while most of its tough hide was a reddish brown in colour, like the buildings of his homeworld, the right side of its head, neck and chest were covered in angry looking scars, as if someone had tried to set it on fire. And Zavahier just _felt _that it was the right beast for him. He reached out to let it sniff his hand, and then he patted it gently on the nose. “I’ll take this one,” he said.

Renncol blinked in surprise, as though she had been expecting him to want the _prettiest_ Dewback rather than the ugliest one – though, really, nobody could say _any_ Dewback was particularly attractive – but then she smiled. “She’s a good animal. A bit nervous sometimes – she’s blind in her right eye, so be careful when you approach her from that side. But she’ll serve you well.”

There were some forms to fill out, and Zavahier ‘persuaded’ Renncol to offer him a discount on two weeks’ Dewback rental, ostensibly because the animal in question was less than perfect, but the reality was that he didn’t have an unlimited supply of credits, and needed to make savings wherever he could. The Dewback – whose name was apparently Marquess – was fitted with her harness, and all of Zavahier’s supplies were placed inside the saddlebags. He led her out of the stable, and then climbed up into the saddle himself, and gestured for Khem to do the same.

But Khem just shook his head. “I can keep up on foot.”

“Alright, suit yourself,” Zavahier said, nudging Marquess with the reins to set her into a gentle walk down the main road out of Kaas City. Khem walked alongside, and Shâsot trotted a little way ahead of them, snuffling at each street corner. At one point Shâsot stopped to sniff a passing Sith Lord, thrusting his nose into the man’s crotch, an action which earned him a sharp jolt of lightning from the Sith. Shâsot responded with a fierce growl, recoiling from the Sith, his mane and shoulder tendrils bristling in an attempt to make himself look larger.

“Keep your pet under control, apprentice,” the Sith said, glaring at Zavahier with open disapproval.

“Leave him alone, Shâsot,” Zavahier said. He wasn’t sure who he was more annoyed at: Shâsot or the Sith Lord.

It really didn’t help when Shâsot gave a grumble of protest, turning to follow Zavahier’s command only with the greatest reluctance. But it satisfied the Sith Lord, who went on his way, throwing a dark look at Zavahier over his shoulder in the process.

Zavahier nudged Marquess into a walk again, but he kept a closer eye on Shâsot. But the Tuk’ata approached nobody else, contenting himself to trot alongside the Dewback… for now. People on foot were required to step aside to make room for them to pass, which suited Zavahier just fine, and at one point Marquess startled as a recklessly driven speeder bike came hurtling in from the right, and was forced to swerve to avoid a collision with the Dewback. She snorted and reared back, almost throwing Zavahier out of the saddle, but he grabbed the front of it just in time, saving himself from a humiliating accident.

Zavahier was annoyed, however, and struck the speeder’s pilot with a bolt of lightning. “Watch where you’re driving, idiot,” he snarled, realising only a fraction of a second later that it was _Karroh_.

There was a startled look of recognition in Karroh’s eyes as well, as if he hadn’t expected Marquess’ rider to be Zavahier. “Sorry, didn’t realise it was you.”

“Oh, so you wouldn’t have been flying like a lunatic if you’d known it was me?” Zavahier asked.

“Well, you are riding a _blind_ Dewback…” Karroh replied. “Seriously, you couldn’t intimidate anyone into giving you a better one?”

“I _like_ this one,” Zavahier said defensively, even though he suspected Karroh was just teasing him.

Karroh actually smiled at that. “Yeah, that sounds just like one of your crazy ideas, Ezerdus. But I can’t stop to talk – Baras is waiting for me. Good to see you again, though. Want to meet up later?”

Despite his irritation with Karroh – both over the careless flying _and_ the existence of Vette – Zavahier nevertheless felt a little disappointed that he couldn’t accept that invitation. “I can’t. I expect to be away from the city for a while. Maybe a few weeks.”

“Zash is keeping you busy, huh?” Karroh asked.

“Something like that, yes,” Zavahier said evasively. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Karroh to keep Zash’s plans for Skotia a secret, it was just…

Well, Zavahier wasn’t really sure he trusted _anyone_ with the truth of what he was doing.

Some things were better kept to himself.

“But when I get back…” Zavahier said, trailing off a little awkwardly. He wasn’t entirely sure what he even wanted from Karroh. Maybe just to have his friend back, someone to train with and share tales of his exploits with. The kind of friendship they’d had at the Academy. Without any of Vette’s teasing.

But when he thought of it like that, Zavahier just found himself feeling a little disgusted with his own weakness. Like he couldn’t handle Vette’s comments! Like he _needed_ Karroh’s approval!

What was the matter with him?


	18. Between Two Worlds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier finds himself between two very different worlds.

In defiance of Zavahier’s expectations, riding proved to be every bit as tiring as walking. By the end of the first day, he was exhausted, and his back and thighs ached. He slept so deeply that night that he didn’t even stir when several Yozusks blundered into the camp in the early hours of the morning. They were dispatched by Khem, who had stayed awake to stand guard. Apparently the Dashade needed very little sleep, and Zavahier tried not to think about how creepy it was to have Khem watching over him while he slept.

But exhausting as it was, there were advantages to riding. Marquess’ slow plodding was faster than Zavahier could walk, and she carried him more than half of the distance to the outpost in the first day. The road was good, at least by Dromund Kaas standards; a broad, muddy path that cut through the jungle and had mostly been kept clear of trees and vines, with metal plates laid down to cover the worst of the mud. Marquess was also bulky enough to deter the jungle predators… and her back was a conveniently high place from which to fling death by lightning on the few occasions when more determined beasts insisted on attacking.

On the second morning of the journey, Zavahier noticed signs that the slave rebellion Zash had mentioned was far more extensive than he would have guessed. He passed several dead soldiers, their bodies lying face down in the mud, and half an hour later he came across a ruined camp. He dismounted and wandered through it, inspecting the damage and trying to work out what had happened. The tents had been pulled down and torn apart, and beneath a ragged sheet of canvas he found several more dead soldiers, their skulls caved in from a brutal attack, probably with rocks.

No animal could have done this.

No, if Zavahier had to guess, he would have said the rebel slaves had attacked the camp. At first it seemed nothing more than an expression of pure rage, very much like his own rebellion against his owner before he’d earned his freedom. These slaves didn’t have the Force to aid them, so they had used whatever came to hand.

Zavahier was still inclined to turn a blind eye to their rebellion. If they attacked _him_, then of course he would kill them. But otherwise… well, he understood how they felt. If they were sensible enough to give him a wide berth, then he would let them continue their revolution. If they wanted to fight for freedom, then why shouldn’t they make the attempt, as long as they didn’t bite off more than they could chew, such as attacking a travelling Sith. And yet… he didn’t expect them to be that smart. A ripple in the Force, like an echo, told him to be wary.

After making note of the destruction in his datapad – and collecting the identification tags of the dead soldiers, so that he could inform _someone_ of the deaths – Zavahier climbed onto Marquess’ back and nudged her in the side with his heels. As the Dewback took a step forward, however, there was movement at the edge of the camp, and a small group of soldiers emerged from the undergrowth, their rifles raised.

The leader, a man with thick red hair and a neat beard, raised his hand to greet Zavahier, and then gestured for his men to lower their weapons. . “Finally, someone who can keep their head in a crisis.”

Possibly not the best choice of words. Sith weren’t exactly known for keeping calm in _any_ situation. “What’s wrong?” Zavahier asked, pulling on the reins to bring Marquess to a halt.

“Rebel slaves hit my team in the jungle. They stole weapons and supplies. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the idiots ransacked our spires for parts,” the soldier said. “Without those components, we’ve got a lightning spire building up dangerous energy levels. It’ll crater half of Kaas City if it blows!”

That caught Zavahier’s attention. While he had been willing to simply leave the slaves to enjoy their rebellion for as long as it lasted, he _wasn’t_ prepared to let them destroy Kaas City, if for no other reason than his _home_ was there. Maybe he wasn’t very good at keeping calm… but in an emergency, few things could beat a suitably motivated Sith. And he was _very_ keen on not having his new apartment blown up. “What is a ‘lightning spire’?”

“They power Kaas City, converting lightning blasts into energy. Handy tech you’d never expect could be the end of us,” the soldier said.

Zavahier glanced up at the heavily clouded sky above him. Yes, on a planet constantly wracked by storms, turning lightning into power for the city was certainly an efficient use of resources. But dangerous, too; he sensed that Dromund Kaas’ storms weren’t an entirely natural phenomenon, but were in fact closer to the lightning used by the Sith, heavy with the dark side of the Force. He didn’t doubt for a moment that such power, if not harnessed carefully, could be very destructive. “How long until the spire explodes?”

“I can’t say for sure. The lightning blasts aren’t predictable. We should have at least enough time to avert the disaster,” the soldier said. “Most of my men ran off. Some tried to reclaim the spire parts, but the rebels cut them down. I came back here for reinforcements, but it looks like the rebels hit the camp too.” He looked around at the ruined camp a little helplessly.

“I will help,” Zavahier offered, taking a guess at what the man wanted of him. “I’d rather my new apartment _not_ be blown up.”

“Thank you, my lord,” the soldier said, a clear look of relief spreading across his face. “We need to recover the components the rebels stole and get that lightning spire back online before it goes critical.”

“They’ll wish they’d never touched the spires,” Zavahier said, even taking himself by surprise with his vehemence. It wasn’t that he particularly liked the idea of killing slaves who were only trying to seize freedom – much as he had done only a few months previously – but destroying Kaas City would be a step too far.

Just like his own random destruction while rebelling had hurt people that hadn’t deserved it. When he’d lashed out at Rawste – and his employees – Zavahier had killed fellow slaves in the process. He hadn’t thought about that in months…

He’d felt so guilty about it at the time, and maybe just a _little_ bit still lingered… but not much. Wasn’t that strange? The dislike of killing slaves had been weighing heavily on his mind recently, so he would have expected to feel worse than he did about his own explosive rebellion and the lives it had taken. But… he didn’t feel much remorse at all. Just enough to serve as a reminder that he was alive. The day he felt nothing, he might as well just become a Jedi and then throw himself off a cliff.

“Excellent. I’ll hold off on raising the alarm for a while longer,” the soldier said. “The rebels are camped along the river. Blast them down, pry the stolen components from their hands, and then reinstall them at the spire.” He handed Zavahier a datapad containing instructions on how to repair the spire, and then, with the tone of a man who knew how to appeal to a Sith’s proclivities, added, “If the river runs red with rebel blood, I’ll throw in something extra.”

Zavahier tethered Marquess to a nearby tree, not wanting to take a half-blind Dewback into a situation that was guaranteed to be violent and chaotic. She would panic if attacked on her blind side, and fighting against rebel slaves required Zavahier to be more manoeuvrable than killing jungle beasts. He set out into the jungle with Khem and Shâsot, following the path downhill towards the river, and stretching out his senses to locate the rebels. They were easy to perceive through the Force, a mixture of emotions that Zavahier was intimately familiar with. Not just the fear, rage and hate, but that rather odd feeling of having freedom but not quite knowing what to do with it, nor how far it could take them.

The slaves’ camp… really wasn’t much of a camp at all. A few sheets of canvas had been tied to the trees to make several clumsy looking shelters, and a fallen tree formed a rather pathetic looking barrier. As soon as Zavahier approached the camp, his lightsabre ignited and sparking in the light rain, the rebel slaves called out the alarm and dived for cover.

It wouldn’t save them, of course.

Zavahier stretched out his hand and sent a powerful thrust of energy into the log, shattering it into an explosion of jagged splinters of wood. The three slaves cowering behind it took the brunt of it, their flesh cut to ribbons, their bowels impaled with larger branches, and one clawed at his eye, where a sliver of wood lodged itself.

Other slaves opened fire with their stolen blasters.

As if _that_ were a threat to Zavahier!

They used the weapons inexpertly, and their aim was so poor that he barely needed to dodge any of the bolts.

Khem and Shâsot charged into the slave camp, tearing into the rebels with ease; Khem cut them to pieces with his vibrosword while Shâsot pounced on them and mauled them with his teeth and claws. Zavahier stayed at the edge of the battle, flinging lightning from his fingertips and radiating dark power to demoralise the rebels.

But there was no joy to be taken from this task. Zavahier was doing what needed to be done, drawing on his own conflicted emotions to empower himself. No fear, of course, save for that vague worry that the lightning spire would explode and take a large chunk of Kaas City with it, possibly including his own home.

But anger?

Oh yes.

If the slaves had just rebelled against their masters without blindly lashing out against the whole of Kaas City, this carnage wouldn’t have been necessary. A master too weak to prevent a rebellion deserved whatever they got. But in targeting the _whole_ city, via the lightning spires, that meant the rebel slaves were a threat to more than just their owners. They threatened things Zavahier cared about.

Such as his apartment, and the possessions within it. Zavahier’s _only_ wealth, barring his lightsabre and the amulet around his neck.

And also…

Well…

Alright, there wasn’t much else that he cared about. Certainly not his fellow apprentices, barring Karroh of course. Not Zash—

No, Zash had to remain alive until he no longer needed her.

Oh, and he wanted the Imperial military intact, which would obviously be a problem if the rebel slaves destroyed the city.

Compared to all that, the unease he felt at killing people just like him almost seemed unimportant.

And yet…

The thrill that came with using his powers rushed through him. He didn’t have to like his current objective to relish expressing his will. And that sense of conflict – of disliking taking a stand against his own kind while _also_ enjoying his own power – served to empower him further.

And then, without having consciously chosen to do so, Zavahier found himself taking pleasure in the moment. In his own strength. His ability to affect change. The fact that he could do things others couldn’t. The knowledge that he was saving the city.

Suddenly, killing the slaves didn’t seem so abhorrent anymore.

These _weren’t_ Zavahier’s people now. He was Sith, and they were rebels. They had chosen to threaten something Zavahier cared about. And he had the power to stop them.

And they did not have the power to stop him.

That was all that mattered. Such a distinction felt important. Slavery was where he had come from, and while it would always be a part of him, it wasn’t where he was _going_. Understanding how the rebel slaves felt, sympathising with their plight, did _not_ mean he wasn’t strong enough to kill them. It didn’t mean he would spare their lives when they did something to deserve being killed.

Zavahier tore into the rebel slaves with more enthusiasm, unleashing the power of the dark side against them; he crushed their emaciated bodies with the Force, hurled them against rocks, and pulled down trees on top of them. Their screams were punctuated by the crack of thunder, and rivulets of blood flowed from their mangled bodies into the river below.

Yet he didn’t waste time torturing them. Zavahier knew time was limited, and each death was brutally efficient. He just needed all of the rebels to be dead as quickly as possible.

From their corpses he retrieved the stolen spire components. He wasn’t entirely certain what these parts even _did_, but the general structure and design were familiar from his years as a slave. His owner’s factories had produced things like these. And they all seemed to be undamaged, which was a little odd. If Zavahier had been in their position, he would have destroyed the components so that they couldn’t be used again, ensuring that the lightning spire was irreparable. Maybe the slaves had been so excited by their newfound freedom that they hadn’t stopped to think their strategy through.

He could understand that. It wasn’t like his own rebellion had been particularly well thought out. But here, too, was further proof that he’d gone beyond being just a slave. He _could_ think things through. He would have destroyed the components to make sure the lightning spire couldn’t be repaired, if destroying Kaas City had been his goal. Something to keep in mind for the future, if he ever needed to demolish, say, a Republic city. Or a Jedi temple!

With the missing parts reclaimed, Zavahier turned away from the river and climbed the hill towards the lightning spire. It stood at the very summit, the highest point for several kilometres so as to attract as much lightning as possible, and even as he approached it, he could feel it humming with energy. It had been struck recently, but the power wasn’t being channelled correctly. Another few strikes, and the power would be sent to Kaas City in one massive burst. An explosion.

Zavahier began reinstalling the stolen components, partly following the datapad the soldier had given him, and partly following his own instincts. If he put something in the wrong place, it would probably explode, and he would sense that danger before it happened. When he returned the last piece – possibly a capacitor of some kind – into its correct place, he felt the power building up in the spire begin to dissipate. The excess electricity was grounded into the earth beneath his feet, something he experienced as an odd tingling sensation, and then the normal flow of energy into the city resumed.

Disaster averted, all thanks to Zavahier. Felt nice, didn’t it?

He made his way back to the ruined camp where the soldiers were still waiting. They looked up as he approached, so he said, “You can relax. I killed the rebels and repaired the lightning spire.”

The leader of the soldiers was visibly relieved. “I was just about to call in evacuation orders for the city. Well done. The rebel slaves will think twice before tampering with Imperial property again.” He gave Zavahier a credit chip, payment for his hard work.

“I think it’s time this whole rebellion was ended,” Zavahier said as he pocketed the credits. The best way to prevent any further threat to Kaas City was to kill _all_ the rebel slaves. He gave the identification tags he’d collected from the dead soldiers to the leader, and then returned to Marquess, untying her and then climbing onto her back. The soldiers saluted him as he turned Marquess towards the south.

Well, wasn’t that lovely?

~*~*~*~

The remainder of the journey to the Unfinished Colossus was straightforward, though not without incident. He was ambushed by two groups of rebel slaves, which were easily killed. Perhaps too easily. Zavahier didn’t hesitate to destroy them, didn’t question the fact that it needed to be done. He felt uneasy about it, of course. Conflicted, even.

But this wasn’t about what he wanted. It wasn’t about what he was comfortable with.

Maybe that was what he had needed to learn during this journey, the purpose behind why Zash had sent him. His past would always be a part of him, but it shouldn’t hold him back from seizing his future. He was Sith now, and that meant dominating those around him, including the Empire’s slaves. He didn’t have to be happy about it, and he didn’t have to _like_ the practice of slavery. But nor should he hesitate. There was no room for uncertainty in his life.

He would need to test himself against more rebel slaves.

Just to make sure that he _could _do it.

That sense of determination stayed with Zavahier for the rest of the journey, and when he reached the outpost late in the afternoon, his desire to face the challenge presented by his own feelings for slaves warred with his weariness. Two days on the back of a Dewback had left his body aching, and he knew the sensible thing to do would be to get some rest and then attack the slaves with vigour tomorrow morning.

Yet that just felt… wrong.

He had to do this _now_. The Force would give him the strength he needed.

The outpost, positioned a couple of kilometres away from the construction site, had a pen for Dewbacks, where Zavahier left Marquess, and he told Khem to set up camp for the night within the outpost’s walls. Then he strode out through its gates, heading towards the Colossus. This felt like something he had to do alone.

The land beyond the outpost had clearly seen a great deal of activity in the last few months. The trees had all been cut down, and the undergrowth had been cleared away, leaving bare earth marked with countless footprints and the wheel treads of construction machinery. The Colossus itself was visible several kilometres away, towering over the surrounding jungle, and even rising above the nearby cliffs. It was a vast statue of a Sith Lord with a holocron in one hand and the other outstretched, as if producing invisible lightning.

It was… faintly ridiculous, actually.

Zavahier could appreciate the value of impressive displays of power, certainly. But a statue out in the middle of the jungle was just so _impractical_ that, really, it was no surprise that the slaves had revolted. Stuck out here in the wilderness for months on end, working on such an absurd project that didn’t even have the benefit of improving the view of the jungle from Kaas City, would have inspired _anyone_ to start a rebellion. If it had been _him_, he wouldn’t even have allowed the statue to get to this stage of completion. A couple of days working on the thing’s _feet_ would have driven him to rebellion.

He was still staring at the statue, trying to figure out what could have motivated a Sith to commission the Colossus – and coming up with no satisfactory answers beyond ‘insanity’ – when he sensed danger approaching. With a single fluid motion, Zavahier sidestepped the slave that attacked him from behind, and drew his lightsabre, easily cutting the man in two.

There were a great many more slaves approaching, some with blasters and others with vibroblades, and they _all_ attacked him, apparently hoping to overwhelm him through sheer numbers.

Just because he was Sith.

That was the hardest thing about it.

These slaves didn’t see him. They didn’t see a person. Just a Sith. They were doing the exact thing that so many slaves hated their masters for doing.

Zavahier unleashed his power on them without hesitation, blasting them with lightning and cutting them down with his lightsabre. And that was all they saw. A figure in dark robes, wielding a lightsabre and using the Force, and the lingering signs of slavery went completely unnoticed. In fairness, Zavahier had _wanted_ that. The scars on his neck and the tattoo on his wrist were carefully hidden beneath his robes, and if he still tended to look rather gaunt, at least he no longer had the almost skeletal physique he’d had as a slave. He was scrawny, but not starved.

Yet part of him had _expected_ to be recognised as a slave.

So to be attacked like this only strengthened his resolve. These really weren’t his people anymore. Three months of Sith training had changed him, and it wasn’t just something within himself, but in the way others saw him too. When other slaves looked at him, they didn’t see one of their own anymore.

They saw a Sith.

An enemy.

That realisation hit Zavahier hard, and expressed itself as an intense surge of rage, inarticulate and irrational in its ferocity. A powerful burst of lightning exploded into the air around him, blasting all the slaves away from him. They fell to the ground, twitching and writhing in pain as purple electricity surrounded their bodies and sparked over stagnant puddles of water. Zavahier stalked towards the closest slave and executed him with a bolt of lightning, and then the next, and the next. Some he tortured with streams of lightning, just to hear them scream. Others he killed quickly, a display of raw power and fury rather than mercy. He barely even noticed their faces.

Zavahier went to the next slave, a Zabrak, who was just beginning to recover from the explosion of lightning, and raised his hand to deliver a fatal shock.

The slave cringed away from him, raising one arm over his head in an instinctively defensive position. “Please, don’t—” he began, before cutting himself off. “Wait… _Zavahier_?”

The sound of his own name made Zavahier hesitate, and he lowered his hand, blinking as his rage gave way to confusion. And then, a moment later, recognition. He _knew_ this man.

And the slave knew him. “Zavahier, it really is you, isn’t it? It’s me, Kegus.”

“I…” Zavahier began uncertainly, having absolutely no idea how he was meant to handle this situation. What was he supposed to say to someone he’d known his entire life, that he had been within moments of killing, so caught up in his own anger that he hadn’t even _recognised_ him? He deactivated his lightsabre and clipped it to his belt, before thrusting his hands into his pockets, a conscious choice to not attack Kegus. “Yes, I know you.”

“I thought you were going to kill me,” Kegus said as he slowly climbed to his feet. A few other surviving slaves were recovering from the lightning as well, and were getting up, moving to stand in a group behind Kegus.

Clustering together for mutual protection.

Zavahier remembered doing that when he was a slave. Hiding in a large group had created a feeling of safety in numbers. The same thing that had compelled them to attack him as one large group. And now that he saw them – _really _saw them – he found other faces he recognised too. Trejar and Anzara were there, and Kalduz was in the back, and a handful of others too. Even the ones he _didn’t_ know were seeking safety within the group, trusting in Zavahier’s reluctance to attack people he recognised to keep themselves safe as well.

He couldn’t really blame them for that.

He _had_ just slaughtered several dozen of them.

And now he really wasn’t sure what to do. He _ought_ to kill them. Yet seeing the faces of people almost as close as family made that a lot harder. He didn’t want to kill these slaves. The others, yes, because he had to. But not the ones he’d grown up with. Zavahier and Kegus had played together when they were children, though Kegus had also often teased him. Trejar had regularly stolen food from him.

“I…” Zavahier said again. “I really wasn’t expecting any of you to be here.”

“We weren’t exactly expecting to see you either,” Trejar replied. “You’re… you’re not going to kill us, are you?”

“Of course not,” Zavahier said immediately, a wholly instinctive response, one that he realised just a fraction of a second later… might not actually be the truth. He really wasn’t sure what he was going to do. Maybe he _would_ kill them. They were rebelling against the Empire, after all, and the fact that he knew them from his past didn’t change the fact that they posed a threat to his home. What was more important? Old friends or his new apartment?

“Good, ‘cause you’re _really_ scary,” Anzara said, still regarding him with a fearful expression, and looking very much like she would have liked to run away from him.

“Is Icallijo here?” Zavahier asked, ignoring Anzara’s fear – and the fear he could feel radiating from all the slaves gathered around him, really – and instead looking around and really _hoping_ that the man who’d raised him wasn’t among the people he’d killed. Now that he really looked, he saw several faces he recognised amongst the deceased. But not Icallijo.

Kegus shook his head. “Fortunately not. We were separated when we were brought here. Those of us still young enough to work were set to working on that huge statue. We don’t know what happened to the others.”

Strangely, Zavahier felt relieved. “Alright,” he said, and then took a deep breath. Now he knew why he’d felt the need to come out here now rather than waiting until tomorrow. And why he had expected to be recognised. The Force had brought him here, he was sure of it.

What he didn’t know was _why_.

“I’m _glad_ Icallijo isn’t here,” Trejar said, speaking loudly to make himself heard. “He would be appalled if he saw you now. And I don’t care if you kill me for saying it.”

Zavahier took a step back, recoiling as though struck. “I…” he began, and then trailed off, unable to find an adequate answer.

“I mean, _look at you_,” Trejar continued. “You just murdered all these people, people who used to be your friends, and it didn’t bother you, did it? You didn’t even see them. Not properly. And your _eyes_! That’s _not_ normal. What happened to you?”

“I—well…” Zavahier said, and then, in the face of all the disapproving stares directed at him from his fellow slaves, he bristled defensively. “You attacked _me_, remember?”

“Oh, yeah, play the victim, why don’t you?” Kalduz said, while Trejar and several of the others nodded in agreement. “The poor, innocent Sith being attacked by a bunch of slaves. How _scary_ for you.”

“That’s not what I meant—” Zavahier said.

“Enough excuses!” Trejar interrupted him. “You’re just like your father.”

“Let him speak, Trejar,” Kegus said.

But Zavahier just shook his head. “Nothing I say is going to make a difference. Just… run away. All of you. Run, and stay out of my way!” he said, and when the group of slaves didn’t immediately flee from him, he drew and ignited his lightsabre. He really _would_ kill them if they didn’t leave _right now_. But the threat of a lightsabre was enough. The slaves scattered, fleeing in every direction, and Zavahier stood in the rain, watching them go, and feeling…

Alone.

What other word could describe it?

He was no longer a slave. Where he had once been part of a close-knit community that could always trust and rely on each other, now he was an outsider. He didn’t belong amongst them anymore. They were afraid of him, just as they were afraid of all Sith. Perhaps they were even _more_ afraid of him because they knew who he had once been.

Yet Zavahier didn’t truly belong amongst the Sith either. To the rest of the Order, he was still a slave, completely unworthy of the power he wielded.

And that placed him quite firmly between two very different worlds. He was a slave, and he was Sith. He had the traits of both groups.

But he was accepted by neither.

It was an incredibly isolating thought. But a valuable lesson nonetheless. He had needed this. That was why the Force had brought him here, so that he could face his old friends and learn that he really was alone. Reliant solely on whatever power he could claim for himself.

Zavahier returned to the outpost, but held himself aloof from the soldiers guarding it, and avoided contact with the only Sith Lord also present. Khem had set up a small camp for them in quiet corner, and Zavahier settled down to pick at his dinner without much enthusiasm.

“Did you find what you were searching for, little Sith?” Khem asked him eventually.

“I don’t know. Maybe,” Zavahier replied, and then reconsidered. “Well, yes, I suppose I did find it. Something I already knew was true, but I had to see it for myself.”

If he thought about it, there were _advantages _to being somewhat separate and outside both groups. It gave him room to forge his own path. He couldn’t be pressured to follow the traditions of the Sith if he was going to be ostracised no matter what he did. And he would not be controlled and subjugated like a slave. His power was his own, to do with as he saw fit. That might mean killing his old friends in order to get the information he needed. Or if he even _saw _them again. But there was something about knowing they had rejected him that made it easier to see them not as friends, but as an obstacle to overcome.

But he shouldn’t think of it as rejection, either, because that implied there was something wrong with him. And there wasn’t. He was Sith. That meant he was strong, independent, and capable of looking after himself. He didn’t need to hide in the middle of a group in order to feel safe. And if he looked at his past objectively, he’d never liked most of his fellow slaves anyway; he'd always been a little different, and they’d always sensed it. He’d been pushed around and bullied more than he’d been liked or accepted.

Zavahier didn’t believe in destiny, or at least not to the extent that he thought it controlled his life. But he knew one thing: he had never been _meant_ to be like them. And so, he’d never been supposed to be one of them.

He _had_ been meant to come out here and see the truth for himself.

He wasn’t a slave.

And they still were. Those faces from his past. Those people that used to be important to him.

Tomorrow he would find those archaeological plans. If they existed. Which they might not. But he could determine that for himself, too.

No matter what the cost.

No matter who he had to kill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After some discussion with [tuulof_nabaal](/users/tuulof_nabaal/), I will be temporarily changing to a weekly posting schedule, since so many people have so much more time to read right now. I can't do this long term, as I just don't write quickly enough and I need editing time, but at least for April, I'll post a new chapter once a week!


	19. Not So Difficult Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier finds some choices easier than he expected.

In the early hours of the following morning, Zavahier climbed the ramp up to the top of the outpost’s wall, giving him a good view of the surrounding area. He wanted to get a better idea of a potential route to the Colossus, as well as any notable groups of rebel slaves that might get in his way. Immediately outside the outpost were the slave camps, and beyond it the construction site for the Colossus. But there was very little order out there; the slave rebellion had created widespread chaos and destruction, seemingly without any particular goal in mind. He saw slaves scurrying around, and he leaned against the railings to watch them while he considered his plan for the day.

Out there, somewhere, was Darth Skotia’s secret, hidden somewhere near the unfinished statue. Assuming that it did actually exist, which he admittedly wasn’t _completely_ convinced of. But Zash had sent him out here to look for them, so he did at least have to _look_, just on the off-chance she had been telling the truth and he did have a greater purpose here than proving he was capable of killing slaves.

Actually, now that he thought about it properly, without letting his feelings about slavery get in the way, it seemed likely that Zash really _did_ need him to recover those archaeological plans.

It was interesting how the previous night’s encounter with his childhood friends had made him see himself and his emotions more clearly, wasn’t it?

Yet to say Zavahier still felt conflicted about that was an understatement. He’d been thinking about it all night, and while he had convinced himself that it was necessary, a belief strengthened by the knowledge that the slaves themselves didn’t consider him one of them anymore… it would have been a lie to say he didn’t care at all. After all, it was his emotions that made him Sith. If he felt nothing at all, that would have made him no better than a Jedi.

Now he was prepared to go out there again, and torture and kill slaves until they told him where the archaeological plans were. Killing the slaves could unsettle him, and not only would that not prevent him from doing it, but the conflicted feelings about it would make him more powerful.

From all the way up here, looking down on the slaves in the valley beyond the outpost, it was easy to see himself as superior.

A young officer came to join him, moving to lean against the railings a few metres away, and when Zavahier glanced at him, he offered a nod and a simple greeting: “My lord.”

There was a few moments of silence as they both watched the slaves, and then the officer spoke again. “Look at them out there. They’re like animals. Hundreds of slaves, with no one to command them and without a thought in their minds as to what to do with their ‘freedom’.”

Zavahier nodded in agreement. “It’s hard, having freedom for the first time.” He was _still _getting used to it, really. It was sometimes a hard concept to get his head around, not just knowing that he was free, but that he had to actually think about what to do with it. He had to think about who he was. It was weird actually being a person for the first time in his life. Having an identity that he was still exploring, still trying to understand… still _defining_, both for himself and in relation to the galaxy in which he lived. It wasn’t as simple as just being whoever the Empire expected him to be. What would be the point in being Sith if he surrendered his individuality?

The officer opened his mouth to respond, then closed it as he realised what Zavahier had said. Then he coughed, and shook his head. “So you…?” he asked, leaving the question hanging.

“Yes. I was a slave once,” Zavahier said. There was little point in concealing it. The Empire would never let him forget it, and in truth, he rather enjoyed the uncertainty it created. It made other Sith underestimate him, and made other Imperials unsure of what to make of him. One day, he would find out what effect it had on a Jedi. It would likely be amusing. “Now I’m Sith. But I still remember what it was like, being one of them.”

“Of course, my lord,” the officer said. “It’s odd, though. Like I said, the slaves are animals, running around without any goal or purpose. But we’ve noticed strange behaviour in the pack, and my superiors want to know more.”

Zavahier felt a strong temptation to shock the officer for describing the slaves as animals. It was exactly that kind of attitude – the way the Empire didn’t consider slaves to even be people – that led to rebellions like this. But he held back, mostly because he was curious about the strange behaviour the officer had noticed in the slaves. “What have you seen?”

“Some of the slaves are killing each other. We don’t know if they’re mad, or hungry, desperate… or if there’s a faction of slaves who’ve turned on the rest,” the officer said.

“You’ve been observing them. Give me your best guess,” Zavahier said, mostly interested in the officer’s own conclusions about what was going on.

The man gave a shrug. “I don’t really know. Who can fathom the mind of a slave?”

Somehow that reply didn’t really surprise Zavahier. How many Imperials even _tried_ to see the galaxy from a slave’s perspective? “In the eyes of the law, slaves aren’t people. It’s easy to stop acting like one when you have to live like that,” he said, remembering his own rebellion very clearly. His first kill had been driven by animal instinct, with no real thought behind it, no genuine intention to commit murder. An act of desperation and fear, the result of years of abuse and neglect, and the desire to avoid further pain.

“Ah. Yes. Yes, my lord. Of course,” the officer said, looking rather taken aback by Zavahier’s blunt honesty. “But I’m not sure that’s the case here. We know that the killings are… ritualistic. The murderous slaves come in the night, stab their foes and paint themselves in blood. There has to be a purpose behind it, and maybe it doesn’t matter… but we want to know for certain what’s going on.” He paused again, and when he spoke again, it was hesitantly, as though he feared Zavahier’s reaction. “If you could investigate… catch them in the act and take them down… or just ask them… they might talk to you, since you… well, you know. Maybe you could find a clue to their motives?”

Zavahier considered the request. Despite the officer’s attitude towards slaves, he was correct that there was something strange going on out there. Ritualistic killings spoke of an intent beyond instinct or desperation. But he rather doubted the slaves would be willing to talk to him, if his experiences yesterday had been any indication. He would probably have to force them to give him an answer. Good thing he was willing to do that, then. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

“Thanks, my lord. Look out for any slave who’s turned on his peers. With luck, he’ll lead us to answers,” the officer said.

Zavahier pushed himself away from the railings and walked along the wall until he reached the ramp that took him back down into the outpost. The guards at the blockade were changing, allowing the night shift to retire to the barracks while freshly woken soldiers took their place. And in Zavahier’s corner of the outpost, Khem was waiting for him; his face was the same as ever, but irritation radiated from him, something Zavahier felt clearly through the Force bond between them.

“The other Sith demands to speak with you,” Khem told him, referring to the Sith Lord whose presence Zavahier had noted… and whose attention he had been trying to avoid.

And hadn’t that gone well?

“Come on, then. Let’s see what he wants. And if we don’t like what he has to say, you can eat him,” Zavahier suggested.

Khem rumbled an agreement to this idea, and willingly followed Zavahier through the outpost to the tent on the other side, where the other Sith had set up his own small camp. He was inside one of the larger tents, his back to the entrance as he dictated a report to the computer.

“Exactly as reported. A degree-six revolt, population equivalent to the Duros uprising on Zilior. Subjects occupy a moderate radius of jungle. Good, good…” the Sith said. His report trailed off as he sensed Zavahier’s approach, and turned around to face him.

His appearance took Zavahier by surprise. While from behind, the man had looked like… well, a regular man, the reality was something quite different. His skin was pale and ashen in colour, and strangely translucent, the dark veins clearly visible beneath his skin, especially around his mouth and eyes. Zavahier knew what it was, of course – the mark of a powerful connection to the dark side of the Force, and thus a badge of honour amongst the Sith – but this was the first time he’d seen it with his own eyes.

This was likely what his own future held.

And maybe that ought to bother him. But Zavahier already disliked his appearance, and it wasn’t like he was anything special to look at anyway. Nor was he as vain as Karroh. If this was the price of power, then it was one he would be willing to pay.

Fortunately, the Sith Lord didn’t seem to notice Zavahier’s surprise at his appearance. “Welcome, apprentice. Your timing couldn’t be better. I am Lord Drowl. When the Empire encounters resistance on its conquered worlds, they call me. I’m here to end the slave uprising on Dromund Kaas. And you can assist me in ending it,” he said in an oddly drawling voice.

So _that _was what he had summoned Zavahier here for?

Well…

Alright.

Zavahier would listen.

But he sensed something in Lord Drowl. A kind of anticipation, a sense of relish and enjoyment taken in his purpose.

“You enjoy your job, don’t you?” Zavahier asked.

“Dominating lesser beings and squashing their will to resist? Of course I enjoy it,” Drowl said. “I think you will, too. The situation is this: a Sith Lord was constructing a colossal statue of his master in the jungle. His slaves revolted and armed themselves. The Colossus remains unfinished and well-armed slaves now control the jungle. An embarrassment for the Empire, but an opportunity for me.”

“Yes, yes, to do what? What can these renegade slaves possibly provide you?” Zavahier asked, though he was pretty sure he could guess the answer. As much as he enjoyed utterly destroying his enemies, including torturing them with his lightning when the whim took him, he didn’t think that was _quite_ the same as what he sensed in Drowl.

“Test subjects, of course!” Drowl said, sounding utterly delighted at the prospect. “A means of perfecting my techniques. This is a chance to refine the Empire’s methods of suppressing rebellion.”

“Of killing slaves, you mean,” Zavahier said.

“Slave deaths will be the by-product of my plan, but not the focus,” Drowl said. “I’m testing a toxic weapon – a poison called Quell. Its victims experience a prolonged state of agonising pain before finally dying. The victims’ allies are so horrified by Quell’s effects, they lose their wills to resist. At least, that’s what I intend to prove.”

“Hmmm…” Zavahier said quietly, not at all convinced. His own experiences told him that more suffering didn’t automatically result in less resistance. In the short term, yes, when the fear of pain encouraged submission in the moment at hand. But over a longer period of time, the promise of harsh treatment encouraged more resistance rather than less.

But… perhaps he was wrong.

He had to acknowledge the fact that his own strength of will was a factor. Rawste had never been able to completely dominate him, and Zavahier was fairly certain that it was his connection to the Force that had allowed him to withstand his owner’s abuse and still keep fighting.

Maybe the threat of suffering would cow weaker slaves.

Maybe…

Maybe Drowl knew better than him what worked against slave rebellions.

Or maybe Zavahier knew better than Drowl.

“I need someone to introduce a controlled amount of Quell into the slaves’ water supply so that I can determine the proper dosage,” Lord Drowl continued, apparently undaunted by Zavahier’s doubt. “The work is dangerous – there will be armed slaves everywhere – but your success will be well rewarded. What do you say?”

Zavahier hesitated, and then nodded. “Alright, I’ll do it.”

He really couldn’t have said _why_ he agreed to this task when he didn’t even believe it would work. Perhaps just to prove Lord Drowl wrong. To answer the question of who understood the situation best. Or maybe just to prove to _himself_ that he really wasn’t a slave anymore, and that the rebels were truly his enemies.

Or perhaps it was just easier to let the slaves be poisoned to death rather than ending their lives with his own hands.

Now that sounded like a coward’s way out, didn’t it?

Maybe he should have just refused to have any involvement at all.

Ah, but then Drowl would accuse him of cowardice. Or worse, of having sympathy for slaves. And Zavahier _needed _to distance himself from his origins. It was one thing to be honest about having once been a slave, but quite another to be obviously supportive of their rebellion against the Empire. He had to seem, at least on the surface, willing to turn on his former associates. Besides, the rebels had already proven themselves willing to strike against Kaas City - and thus Zavahier’s apartment - once already. Another very good reason to kill them before they could try it again.

“Good. My assistant, Sergeant Slarin, will recommend the correct dosage of Quell and give you a supply. See him at the research tent,” Drowl said, before turning his back to Zavahier and beginning his dictation to the computer again.

Still not convinced by any of this – and feeling a little repulsed by his own uncertainty on the matter – Zavahier sought out the research tent, which was on the other side of Drowl’s small camp, and quickly located Sergeant Slarin.

The older officer frowned at him, regarding Zavahier with unmistakeable distaste. “If I know Lord Drowl’s tastes – which unfortunately, I do – he’s sent you for the Quell toxin.”

Zavahier gave a small sigh. “I’m helping him put down the slave revolt. The sooner we get it done, the better,” he said, still feeling some displeasure with the task himself. The slaves needed to be dealt with, of course, but he didn’t much care for Drowl’s methods. Better to just get it over with, and try to forget it.

“Impatient? Of course you are,” Slarin said, completely misunderstanding Zavahier’s words. “My superior certainly knows how to choose his assistants. He appreciates a particular sort of talent. But… do you truly understand what he’s asked you to do?”

Zavahier regarded the man blankly, not sure there was really very much point in answering.

Slarin took his silence for confirmation that he didn’t fully understand the task he had been set to. “What if I told you this experiment is pointless – that past studies have shown increased suffering has no impact on the speed of surrender?”

“I can believe that,” Zavahier said with a nod. That was consistent with his own experiences, and Slarin had confirmed that it wasn’t only the stronger individuals that responded to suffering that way.

“This has nothing to do with accelerating the end of a rebellion. Lord Drowl simply takes perverse thrill in gratuitous suffering,” Slarin said, encouraged by Zavahier’s willingness to listen. “Don’t you see? Lord Drowl compromises efficiency for his own twisted fixations. There’s no reason why our mission here must be prolonged. I want this assignment over with. The faster this rebellion ends, the faster I’ll be reassigned to more important work. Serving Lord Drowl’s bloodlust has stunted my career. If not for his inefficiency, I’d be a captain by now.”

Slarin spoke passionately in favour of efficiency, but he betrayed himself with that final complaint, and Zavahier frowned at him. “If you let others block your progress, you deserve to fail.”

“Why do you think we’re having this discussion?” Slarin asked bluntly. “I know my potential – just as I know who’s holding me back from achieving it. But I’m not looking for sympathy. I’m looking for an ally.”

“What do you need me to do?”

“Lord Drowl’s dosage of Quell toxin will have slaves writhing in agony for pointless weeks – during which this area will remain volatile. I’ve prepared a dose that will kill the slaves efficiently – which is better for the Empire and for me. Will you deliver my dosage instead?” Slarin asked.

“Yes,” Zavahier said without hesitation. “Let’s end this revolt quickly.” _There_ was the difference between his own tastes and Drowl’s. When he tortured an enemy into submission, it took minutes. Maybe, one day, he would have the patience to keep a victim alive for an hour or two. But _weeks_? That was something else entirely. He’d have to hate someone a _lot_ to want to draw out their suffering that long. If Drowl did that on a regular basis, that would _really_ slow down the squashing of rebellions. Very inefficient, when there was so much of the galaxy the Empire didn’t currently own. Torture could be fun, but efficiency mattered too.

“_Thank _you,” Slarin said with palpable relief. “It’s the right thing for everyone. Well… almost everyone…”

Yes, there was no denying that the clear losers in all of this were the slaves. But they had brought it on themselves with their rebellion, hadn’t they? How else could the Empire respond, other than to kill them?

After all, if not for his Force-sensitivity, that was how Zavahier’s rebellion would have ended. His ability to use the Force had saved him from a very painful execution. Yet he couldn’t begrudge them their desire for freedom. He understood their lives better than anyone.

Zavahier really could keep going in circles with those thoughts all day. And arguing with himself was hardly a productive use of his time. So he took the stronger dosage of Quell poison from Slarin, and then made his way out of the outpost, following the same path he had taken the day before. There were water filtration tanks scattered throughout the area, and he would need to find them all to ensure as many slaves as possible were exposed to the Quell toxin.

The slaves themselves avoided him. He could sense them nearby, their emotions betraying their presence, but they remained out of sight, knowing better than to attack a party consisting of a Sith, a Dashade and a Tuk’ata. But perhaps that was for the best. If killing slaves was hard, killing ones that he actually _knew_ was harder still.

That might be a reason to do it anyway.

Catching himself getting into that cycle of thought _again_, Zavahier shook his head, and then glanced sideways at Khem. This was exactly the kind of situation where he needed the insight of someone else. “Khem, you know that I used to be a slave, yes?” he asked. He hadn’t really discussed his past with Khem, but he was reasonably certain that the Dashade was at least aware of it.

“Yes, little Sith,” Khem confirmed. “Do not remind me of your weakness.”

“I just want your thoughts on something,” Zavahier said, choosing to ignore the insult. “Some of the slaves in this rebellion are people I knew – before I became Sith, I mean. I should kill them, shouldn’t I?”

“If you have to ask, then you know the answer. You are merely reluctant to seize it,” Khem said.

Zavahier nodded in understanding, and then, without saying anything further, he turned off the path and followed his senses, heading towards the nearest group of slaves. They were hiding behind a pile of rubble – what had once likely been a wall inscribed with Sith text – and Zavahier sprang up to the top of the heap with ease. From this high place, he unleashed a barrage of lightning on the slaves behind it, hitting them in the back as they fled from him. Two of them chose to fight, the first opening fire with a stolen blaster, and the other scrambling up the rubble to swing a vibrosword at Zavahier’s legs. He deflected the blaster bolts with his lightsabre. Khem smashed in the skull of the other slave with the hilt of his vibrosword.

Pitifully easy.

He recognised some of those slaves, too. Names and faces from his past, destroyed in a single blast of lightning. Zavahier felt it as a wrench in his chest, a surge of guilt so powerful that it was almost a physical pain. He made a small noise in the back of his throat, a whine of distress that he quickly stifled, and he felt a tremor in the Force. Only a moment later did he realise the tremor had come from him, a palpable ripple of unhappiness that couldn’t be restrained.

“Keep going, little one,” Khem told him firmly.

Zavahier pressed on, drawing power from his own turmoil as he hunted down all the slaves he could find, and specifically targeted the ones that he recognised. He tore into them with the Force, painfully crushing their bones and internal organs, and their pain intensified his own. He found Trejar and gazed into his eyes as he slowly tortured him to death with lightning. He let the body fall to the ground and then walked away. Anzara was beheaded with a single sweep of his lightsabre. He picked up Kalduz with the Force and viciously smashed him into a rock, over and over until he was a mangled mess of blood and bone.

He didn’t like this!

It _hurt_!

The pain of it – guilt and grief and self-hatred – made his attacks more powerful. More destructive. More brutal.

A part of him wanted to scream, but he held back. He said nothing. The only sounds were his short, ragged breaths. The hum of his lightsabre. The crack of lightning. But the whole area was permeated with his emotions, waves and waves of dark, negative energy that seeped into the minds of every living thing, destroying their will to resist.

Except for Kegus.

Kegus tried to fight back, clumsily wielding a vibrosword to parry Zavahier’s lightsabre. He radiated fear, and his eyes shone with tears as he tried to defend himself. “Zava, stop! Just stop! Please! We were friends! We—”

His pleas were cut short when Zavahier dodged around the vibrosword and sent a small spark of lightning into its power cell. The explosion took Kegus’ forearm off, and he screamed in agony, dropping to the ground and clutching at the stump of his arm.

Zavahier let him suffer for a few seconds, and then ended his life with a quick blast of lightning. Kegus fell back into the mud, his yellow eyes staring blankly up at the sky.

There were no slaves left in the area now. They had all fled, retreating back towards the Colossus. Zavahier almost pursued them.

But then he stopped.

He was in control here.

This wasn’t a mindless slaughter.

This was a considered, _deliberate_ massacre.

He had done what he needed to do.

Almost everyone he had known on Caekarro was dead.

Old friends – family, really – that he had known for his whole life, were now nothing but corpses in the mud, fodder for whatever scavengers found them.

Zavahier stared at them in silence, just absorbing the sight, before stepping forward, moving amongst the dead slaves and crouching by each one to search their pockets. He soon retrieved a partial map of the area. Most of the details were difficult to make out beneath the spotted blood stains, and those he could see were quite clearly incomplete. It showed where materials for the construction of the Colossus were kept, and hinted at an underground complex… but there wasn’t enough information to tell him precisely what Darth Skotia was hiding here.

“That was well done, little Sith,” Khem said approvingly. He seemed unconcerned by the clear distress radiating through the Force. What mattered were his actions, and the fact that those emotions had made him stronger.

Zavahier would have seemed weaker if he _hadn’t_ been emotionally moved by what he’d done. He wasn’t a Jedi.

“It was… easier than I expected,” he said after a moment. Oh, it _hurt_. And this wasn’t the kind of pain that went away with a little kolto. This would stay with him. But it made him stronger. If all his former family were dead, then he had no attachments left that could be used against him. He bowed his head, closing his eyes for a few seconds. And then he lifted his gaze, and looked out across the slave camp, letting himself feel the guilt, the sadness, and even the perverse pleasure that came with having asserted his strength. He could feel all that at once. Why not? He accepted them into himself, just like he would any other emotion. Any other injury.

And then, ready to face the world, Zavahier set off once again. He walked with purpose towards the nearest water filter. It was a large, cylindrical device supplied by three pipes sunk into the ground; a pump drew water up and into the container, running it through several filters to remove dirt, toxins and waterborne diseases. On the side was a valve that would allow filtered water to be syphoned off into smaller containers. After studying the filtration unit, Zavahier found the best place to introduce the Quell toxin: after the primary filters, but before the final valve.

He glanced around, making sure that no slaves were nearby. If they _saw_ him tampering with the water supply, then they would know to avoid it. But his ruthless slaying of so many slaves had made the others leave the area. They would return eventually, when they knew it was safe.

After he was gone.

And not a moment before.

They were far too afraid of him to dare come near him.

Zavahier injected the Quell toxin into the water filter. When the slaves returned, they would have no idea what he had done. The ones that he hadn’t killed would drink the water and then die. Including any of his former friends that had managed to evade him. He had to assume there were at least a couple out there.

There were three other water filters in the nearby area, and Zavahier had enough Quell for all of them. And to make sure that the slaves drank from the filters, he found and destroyed their reserve water tanks as well. That was easily done; each tank was a flimsily made metal cylinder, readily punctured with a quick thrust of a lightsabre blade. The water gushed out from the holes he made, forming deep, muddy puddles around them. And then, with a moment of inspiration, Zavahier caused further destruction to the camp, tearing down tents and destroying crates of stolen supplies. To the slaves, it would look like the wanton destruction of an angry Sith, rather than a deliberate attempt to deprive them of untainted water.

Zavahier knew _precisely _what he was doing.

And now he needed to give the slaves time to return, to drink the poisoned water.

To die.

He headed back to the outpost, intending to get something to eat and a couple hours sleep, because the slaves wouldn’t go back to their water filters until they thought they were safe… and there was no point in hunting for the murderous slaves until night had fallen. Yet when he curled up on his bed, sleep eluded him. It wasn’t that he’d questioned if he’d done the right thing, because he knew he had. And yet…

Maybe he was a little troubled by the fact that making the decision _should_ have been more difficult than it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although Zavahier is very definitely a dark side character, there are occasions, such as this, when he makes the light side choice. This is, of course, due to the limitations of the dialogue trees in the game, where sometimes the dark side choice is inefficient or impractical, while the light side choice is the practical one. I feel it's important to allow Zavahier to make the choices that make sense for him, even if in-game they would count as neutral or light.


	20. Confronting The Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier deals with another little piece of his past.

Within a few hours, there were dead slaves as far as the eye could see, lying strewn across the ground in the ruins of their camp. Here and there, scavengers emerged from the surrounding jungle to peck at eyeballs and gnaw at entrails. And there were far more than just the ones Zavahier had killed himself. So apparently the Quell toxin was doing what it was meant to. It would have been a lie to say he didn’t feel a little guilt over what he’d done. But not as much as he would have in the past. Even the familiar faces amongst the dead were not his friends and family anymore. They were enemies. Very _dead_ enemies.

And…

Yes, he felt a little pride as well.

It was practically a rite of passage for a Sith, to kill those he had an attachment to. He’d killed his father, of course, but the emotions there had all been negative: rage and hate and fear. The slaves out here, though, were another matter entirely. Even though they hadn’t always been very nice to him, he’d felt safe amongst them. They’d almost been like brothers and sisters, the closest thing he had to family, since he had no blood relatives.

By ending their lives, he’d severed his attachment to them. They were the only people in the galaxy he might have been inclined to show mercy and compassion to. But he had succeeded. Now they were gone, out of his life forever, and he was stronger for it.

There was nothing wrong with feeling a _little_ guilt. While no Sith alive would ever admit to it, he knew from reading historical accounts that guilt _was_ a common reaction to times like this. Masters wrote of their apprentices feeling it. Apprentices wrote of trying to hide it from their masters. It was normal. It didn’t make him weak… as long as he learned from it, and learned the dangers of forming other attachments in future.

He had _definitely_ learned that!

Zash ought to be pleased.

He turned away from the field of dead slaves, climbing down from the wall and going in search of Drowl. The other Sith had undoubtedly noticed that the slaves were dying rapidly, and Zavahier half expected to be reprimanded for it. Drowl might even try to kill him. But maybe that was what he needed right now. A duel with another Sith would give him focus.

And Drowl was indeed radiating displeasure when Zavahier found him. He was leaning over his desk, studying the results of the ‘experiment’, and ranting to himself. “I don’t understand why it didn’t work. I was meticulous with my measurements. Those slaves must be more fragile than I thought.” Then he paused briefly, turning around when he sensed Zavahier’s approach. “The Quell you put in their water supply is killing them outright. It’s so frustrating!”

Well, if there was any good to be found in this situation, it was in knowing that he had ruined another Sith’s plans. That was oddly satisfying, actually. Other Sith were enemies just as much as rebel slaves were.

“It’s not all bad. You can’t have a slave rebellion with no slaves, right?” Zavahier offered.

“True. But I still feel I’ve missed a golden opportunity,” Drowl said. “It’s simply infuriating. All that careful planning for nothing. All my research is now useless. Ah, well. You did as I asked, and your payment was not contingent on the results. Here, take your credits and go. I have a great deal of thinking to do.”

Zavahier took the credit chip from Drowl, and walked away, feeling as though he hadn’t really earned this money, and unsure that he would find much pleasure in having them. But then Sergeant Slarin caught his eye, offering a smile and giving Zavahier a knowing look.

“You did the right thing,” Slarin said.

“I know,” Zavahier replied, but he didn’t return the smile. It seemed that the ‘right thing’ did not necessarily mean the same as something that he actually felt good about, or that he could feel especially proud of. A good lesson for him to learn. Besides, the fact that he had succeeded in killing the slaves – through one means or another – proved that he _deserved_ to defeat them. That was what it meant to be Sith. There was pride to be taken in that, at least. And his strength _was_ something he was proud of. He would need those emotions for what he planned to do next.

Zavahier once again left the outpost and moving through the field of dead slaves. Amongst the bodies he found another part of the archaeological plans, this one showing the area around the Colossus and the roads used to move machinery around. Of particular interest was a road that went around the base of the statue and then petered out without seeming to go anywhere at all.

Possibly a path into a secret base?

There was definitely _something_ here. Whether it was Darth Skotia’s hidden base or something else entirely had yet to be determined.

He couldn’t answer that question until he had found the rest of the plans, though.

And for that, he needed to find living slaves. Ones who camped closer to the Colossus. Amongst them would be the slaves who had been conducting ritual murders of their fellows, too. So Zavahier headed in that direction, keeping to the shadows as much as possible, but following the light in the distance, spotlights intended to illuminate the Colossus.

Yet this attempt at stealth was rather ruined by the fact that Khem and Shâsot were both large and clumsy beings, and it quickly became apparent that the slaves could hear them coming and move to avoid them. They had seen enough of their fellows die to know that Zavahier was dangerous, and chose to stay away rather than risk being killed.

Zavahier stopped, catching hold of Shâsot’s collar to stop him, and beckoning Khem over with a look. “This isn’t working,” he said in a low voice. “If I’m going to catch these slaves attacking each other, I need to be hidden, and you’re both too noisy. Stay here and keep quiet, and I’ll go alone.”

“Be careful, little Sith,” Khem said, entirely too loudly, but it was possible that he simply _couldn’t_ whisper.

“If you hear lightning, feel free to come after me,” Zavahier said. The crack of thunder would travel some distance, and be an easy way to alert Khem and Shâsot if it became necessary to fight the slaves. And he considered this a more likely outcome than any of the non-violent possibilities. Once he had the information he needed, the slaves would need to be killed.

Zavahier crept out into the night, leaving Khem behind. Shâsot attempted to follow him, and had to be pulled back by Khem; there was a frustrated growl from the Tuk’ata, and a quick reprimand from the Dashade. That was going to become a problem eventually, an inevitable battle of wills between the two… and Zavahier wasn’t sure if he ought to intervene and assert his control over both of them, or let them fight amongst themselves until a clear hierarchy worked itself out. What he _didn’t_ want was for one to end up eating the other, which was unfortunately a very real possibility.

He didn’t have time to deal with them now. Another thing he needed to address once he got back to Kaas City.

For now, he moved alone through the shadows, trying to sneak up on the slaves. At first Zavahier relied solely on his own lean frame and dark robes to keep himself hidden, and while this _partly_ worked, there were still traces of his presence. A dark aura surrounded him, a natural consequence of his strength in the Force, and it filled nearby slaves with just enough fear that they reacted to the rustling of leaves and the squelch of mud by running away.

A little frustrated, Zavahier stopped again, chewing thoughtfully on his lip while he sought for a solution. He found it in the Force, and he concentrated, drawing on his inner power combined with the desire to be unseen and unheard. Not his immediate need to move through the area without the slaves sensing him, but an older, darker desire, the same one that had, in the past, made him find comfort in the middle of a crowd of his fellows. The times when his fear of Rawste’s abuse had made him want to be invisible, and he had desperately wanted to remain unnoticed. The anxiety he felt when other Sith focused their attention on him. The uncomfortable feeling of being the centre of attention. Zavahier plunged into the underlying apprehension that every slave knew: to be noticed was to invite pain.

Driven by those emotions, Zavahier instinctively felt what he needed to do, and with the power of the Force, he manipulated light itself to bend around him until he could not be seen. The sound waves created by his movements did the same, twisting back in on themselves until each footstep, each shift of his robes, was completely silent. With some effort, he even drew in his aura in the Force, until none of the slaves could sense his approaching darkness.

It was incredibly hard work. If his concentration wavered, he would be seen, and just the process of using the Force in this way – with such careful precision, rather than the more explosive displays of power he was more accustomed to – was going to be exhausting. He couldn’t keep this up all night.

But at least he could now observe the slaves without them knowing he was there and running away.

He watched them with interest. They were very much like those he had already encountered; they huddled together in groups around small fires for mutual protection, their emotions a clouded mixture of fear and confusion, but with a sense of pride for having made such a daring grab for freedom. Nothing of interest there, beyond his own feeling of recognition, not for specific faces, but for the way they stuck together, allies against a cruel and savage galaxy.

He’d had that once.

And then he’d become Sith.

And murdered just about everyone who’d ever cared about him.

Just for a few moments, the sense of loss distracted him, and his Force-powered concealment failed.

The slaves didn’t see him – night had truly fallen, and Zavahier blended well into the darkness – but they _sensed_ him. They started, getting to their feet and reaching for their weapons, looking around for the source of their sudden anxiety.

Zavahier hurriedly re-established his cloak, hiding his dark aura again with great difficulty. If they saw him, and chose to attack him, then Khem and Shâsot would hear. They would come blundering in and ruin any chance of him finding the other group of slaves.

He backed further away from the slaves, making sure that they really _couldn’t_ sense his presence.

And then he sensed something in turn.

A dark figure moved past him, almost bumping into Zavahier’s shoulder, forcing him to quietly step aside. It was another slave, but he stalked through the night in a manner that was distinctly predatory, putting Zavahier in mind of a Sith. There was no fear, no hesitation, only a deep, smouldering hatred as he crept towards the other slaves.

The group settled themselves by the fire again, having convinced themselves that there was no danger. A very foolish mistake. In one swift motion, the hunting slave launched his attack, approaching a slave from behind and drawing a savage-looking dagger – improvised from a piece of metal – across his throat. The others panicked and fled, leaving their dying comrade behind. The hunter dipped his fingers into the slave’s wound, and painted his forehead and cheeks with streaks of blood.

Zavahier made his move, darting forward and lowering his concealment only at the last moment, when he ignited his lightsabre and stabbed the slave in the back. The man cried out in pain, and then dropped to the ground, sprawled across his own still bleeding victim.

This was the only way to get the attention of the hunter’s fellows. Talking would get Zavahier nowhere. Killing one of them as a display of his power, however… Yes, they would pay attention to that.

On the hunter’s body Zavahier found a datapad, pinpointing the location of the place where these hunter slaves made their base, a small device for lighting fires, and a brief note telling the ‘Initiate’ to light a signal fire when he had made his kill.

This was looking more and more like some kind of cult, wasn’t it?

Which might make them useful… or else a threat to be eliminated.

In either case, Zavahier’s course of action was clear. He followed the map in the datapad to a place near the base of the Colossus, into a tucked away corner between the cliff and a metal barricade. This time he made no attempt to conceal himself – it was too hard to maintain, and right now he _wanted_ the slaves to see him – and instead marched right into their camp and lit the signal pyre.

He didn’t have to wait long for someone to come to him. A large man stepped out of the shadows and into the light of the fire. He towered over Zavahier, a wall of muscle with a badly scarred face and wearing ragged brown clothing.

“You. You’re not the Initiate,” the man said, taking a moment to study him more closely. His eyes looked Zavahier up and down, and then lingered on the lightsabre on his belt, something Zavahier was growing accustomed to people doing. It was his weapon that identified him, and was inevitably seen as somewhat more impressive than anything else about his appearance. But the sight of the lightsabre didn’t frighten the slave. Instead, it seemed to excite him. “You… are Sith! You honour us with your presence, mighty lord. Welcome to our prison.”

Zavahier decided that the best way to go forward was to behave like the Sith he was. “Start talking – but move wrong and I’ll kill you.”

“You want explanations?” the slave asked. “I am Traga un-Vhol, leader of the Unchained. I am master of my hatred. When the other slaves broke free, I laughed. Like you, I knew their ‘escape’ was a delusion – for only Sith possess true freedom! And I know the Sith Code! Freedom comes through power – through victory!”

It was, really, a rather basic and crude understanding of the Sith Code. But then, un-Vhol hadn’t been trained to understand it, not as Zavahier had been. But he understood enough to know that he wanted to live up to it.

“I was a slave myself, before I became Sith,” Zavahier told him, sharing this information because he thought it would encourage un-Vhol to speak further.

“Yes. Yes, mighty one! Then you do understand!” un-Vhol exclaimed.

It had to be said that the compliments were rather nice, too. A bit creepy, but still pleasant to hear.

And yet…

“You’re still stuck here, though,” Zavahier pointed out.

“To leave would have been to die in the fire of Imperial blasters. I had other plans. I saw a chance to prove myself. I culled weak from strong. I began to kill, and to teach,” un-Vhol said. “I showed slaves freedom through bloodshed. Now my followers and I are the masters here – and soon, we will become Sith ourselves. We are hateful. We are powerful. We are free. In this way, we are already Sith.”

“And I thought _I_ was crazy,” Zavahier said drily. There was no denying un-Vhol’s passion for bloodshed; his hatred was palpable, and he clearly derived some kind of power from it. But not the Force. Admittedly, Zavahier was hardly an expert in determining Force-sensitivity in those who hadn’t been trained to use it, but when he probed at un-Vhol’s mind, there was no… resonance. No sense of any true power in the man. “You can’t be Sith. You’re not Force-sensitive.”

“My strength is in my fists! Look how these pathetic ‘free’ men tremble at the sight of me!” un-Vhol insisted. “But the Force has guided me here – and it has guided you. Now, glorious lord, you can spread word of us to the Empire. Give us your blessing, and we shall serve.”

Well, he was clearly insane.

But he might be useful. He was willing to serve, but in a capacity beyond the menial labour of a slave… and he seemed to have the determination to make good use of such an opportunity.

“Alright, the Empire will hear your message,” Zavahier said after a moment. He couldn’t make any final decisions himself. It would be up to higher ranking Sith than himself to decide whether these slaves were worth using. He wondered if any other Sith would even be smart enough to see the possibilities.

After all, although his sympathy for slaves might be considered a weakness, it also came with one advantage: in understanding what slaves felt, it opened his minds to opportunities that other Sith would never think of. Like the simple fact that slavery, for some people, was an inefficient and pointless chain, holding them back from their true potential. The Empire _should_ be ready to make use of slaves that had the capacity to be something more, and that shouldn’t be limited to those that were Force-sensitive. Traga un-Vhol and his followers might be mad, but they may still be of more use hunting the Empire’s enemies rather than building a useless statue. A Sith who only saw slaves as weak, worthless animals would never be able to perceive how they might actually strengthen the Empire if used correctly.

“Take this datapad – my plea to the Sith Lords!” un-Vhol said, handing him the datapad in question.

Zavahier glanced down at it, skimming the first few lines of what appeared to be the cult’s manifesto of power through hatred, followed by an oath of allegiance to the Empire, if only it would give them the chance to prove themselves as Sith. Traga un-Vhol had more to say, however, so Zavahier looked up from the datapad.

“For now, I am not ready to leave the Colossus. With every kill, I feel my power grow – and there are many slaves who may yet join me,” un-Vhol said. “But soon, we will all be ready. We will await word from the Empire.”

“You don’t yet understand the Sith,” Zavahier warned him, thinking the man was getting his hopes up rather prematurely.

“Yes. But I look forward to learning,” un-Vhol said.

Maybe there _was_ hope for him.

But at this point, it wasn’t really Zavahier’s problem anymore. He pocketed the datapad, thinking that he might read it in more depth later, if only because the cultists’ manifesto might prove amusing, and after everything that had happened today, he could do with something to laugh at. He turned away from un-Vhol, taking a moment or two to get his bearings in the darkness, and was about to head back to Khem and Shâsot when one of the other cultists put a hand on his shoulder.

“Sith, I would speak with you,” the slave said.

Zavahier whirled around to face him, lightning leaping to his fingertips. But before he could kill the man for daring to touch him, recognition dawned on him. “Yungif,” he said, greeting the Nautolan by name. Another face from his past, one who had apparently escaped or avoided the purge earlier. A temporary reprieve, nothing more.

“Zavahier,” Yungif replied, keeping his hand on Zavahier’s shoulder and trying to push him away from the signal fire. “Let’s go where we won’t be overheard.”

“What do you want?” Zavahier asked, resisting Yungif’s attempt to force him to move. Once upon a time, Yungif had been able to physically dominate him, and he probably assumed he still could. Zavahier was still small and weak-looking, after all. But now he had the Force to supplement his strength. It would take a stronger man than Yungif to push him around now.

“I have things that need to be said, and I don’t think you will want anyone else to hear,” Yungif said firmly. “Things that I think Icallijo would have wanted to say, if he were here.”

Zavahier _almost _killed him for that, but changed his mind before acting on the impulse. Of course, if this turned out to just be a lecture on how he ought to behave, then he really _would _kill Yungif. But there was the slightest possibility that the Nautolan actually had something interesting to say, so curiosity demanded that he at least listen for a minute. Two at most. So he nodded, and led the way across the valley, coming to the base of the Colossus. Zavahier and Yungif stood at the feet of the great statue, and he sensed that nobody else was nearby. “Speak, then.”

Yungif took a deep breath, considering his words carefully. “You killed the others, didn’t you? No, I’m not going to berate you for it. I’m one of the Unchained. I understand power through victory. You killed them because you are strong, and they were weak.”

“So what is this about?” Zavahier asked. “Just get to the point.”

“This is about _you_,” Yungif said. “Well, you and Rawste—”

“Why didn’t Icallijo tell me Rawste was my father?” Zavahier interrupted. “Why didn’t _any_ of you?”

There was a few seconds of silence, while Yungif gazed thoughtfully at Zavahier, thinking about how to respond. “I think he knew it would hurt you. The situation between you and Rawste was… complicated.”

“That’s one way of putting it…” Zavahier said. He didn’t need to tell Yungif the details; the man already knew exactly what Zavahier had endured. Rawste had tortured him on a daily basis, delivering shocks through his slave collar for even the tiniest infractions – and often for no reason that Zavahier could determine at all. On occasions he had even been separated from the other slaves, locked alone in a cage with only barely enough food and water to survive, and deprived of interaction with anybody until Rawste chose to let him out.

“You don’t even know why he did those things to you, do you?” Yungif asked.

“He was ashamed of me. Of fathering a child with the slave that he _raped_,” Zavahier said.

“No,” Yungif said, and then paused again. “Okay, well, yes, he was. But like I said, it was complicated.”

Zavahier considered this, running over a lifetime of memories of pain and suffering, trying to figure out exactly what revelation he was supposed to be making. But nothing occurred to him. There was no sense or reason behind the things Rawste had done to him. His father had hurt him so many times, with very little justification beyond trying to crush Zavahier’s spirit. But Yungif seemed to be suggesting there was more to it than that.

He gave up trying to figure it out on his own. “What am I missing?”

“The problem was _you_,” Yungif said bluntly.

Zavahier bristled, and sparks leapt to his fingertips. “I was a _slave_. Rawste was the one with all the power, and you saw how he chose to use it. That was never _my_ fault.”

Yungif had the good sense to back away from him, his hands raised defensively. “I wish Icallijo was here. He’d explain it better,” he said. “Look, you were… You were just a child, and it wasn’t really your fault. You couldn’t control it, but you were using the Force – making things fly around, playing with sparks of electricity – and the Empire was asserting its authority on Caekarro. Rawste was terrified someone would find out what you could do and… well, take you off to train as Sith. He didn’t want that for you. He didn’t want you to be just another kid shipped off to Korriban to die.”

“I don’t remember…” Zavahier said uncertainly. As far as he’d been aware, his Force-sensitivity had surfaced only recently, likely as a response to the gruelling ordeal Rawste had put him through after one of the factory machines had stopped working. His own research into the matter – not that very much was written on the subject – was that a latent connection to the Force could awaken during times of duress.

But if he had used the Force before, when he was younger…

What did that mean?

Yungif sighed and shook his head. “You wouldn’t. You were very young, and Rawste started shocking you every time you displayed any signs of the Force. After a while, I guess you buried it.”

That was something Zavahier had suspected for a while now. He still remembered that moment when his power had exploded out of him, breaking through a wall around his mind that he hadn’t even known was there. He’d buried his connection to the Force before that. Sometime so long ago that he didn’t even remember doing it. And yet…

“Why did he—Why did he keep on doing those things to me?” Zavahier asked. He was trying to make sense of this, to understand exactly why Rawste had done the things he had. Why he had been made to suffer even after he’d suppressed his connection to the Force.

Yungif actually looked away from him at that point. “I don’t know.”

“And you said he didn’t want me to be Sith,” Zavahier said. “That sounded like he… like he didn’t always hate me. So why did he—”

“I don’t know!” Yungif said desperately. “I don’t know, alright? When you were a baby, he cared. We thought he might have taken you as his son officially, not made you a slave at all. And then you started using the Force, and he hated that. He was scared the Sith would find you, and it all just got so… complicated. Twisted. And then your mother died, and Rawste just… Look, I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything at all.”

“No, it’s alright. I needed to know the truth,” Zavahier said. He thought he could see what had happened. Sort of. At one point, Rawste had cared about him, had perhaps wanted to raise him as his own son. But not a _Sith_ son. So he had punished Zavahier for being Force-sensitive, and then…

Then…

Then Karima had died.

“Did he love my mother?” Zavahier asked as that spark of inspiration came to him.

Yungif blinked in surprise, apparently not expecting that question from Zavahier. But then he shrugged. “A little, perhaps. Not enough to free her. But he liked the idea of having a son. A little version of himself.”

Zavahier closed his eyes, letting that knowledge sink in. There was, he thought, a very strange kind of logic to it. Rawste had responded to his own emotions – his fear and pain – by inflicting pain on his own son. Maybe Zavahier’s suffering had reduced his own in some way. And somehow a fear of losing a child to the Sith had become a need to crush not just the Force, but Zavahier’s strength of will also.

As a Sith, Zavahier understood all of that.

He could see the emotions Rawste must have felt, could understand why he had acted on them the way he had. And Zavahier recalled that he had _always_ been able to sense fear in his owner, even before he had known of his Force-sensitivity. Some instincts could never be wholly destroyed or suppressed, it seemed.

Yes, he understood it very well.

When viewed through the lens of his own training, it made perfect sense.

But as a person – as a _son_ – Zavahier struggled to accept what Rawste had done to him. And to his mother. No matter what Rawste might have felt for Karima, the fact that she had been a slave meant that nothing could change the fact that Rawste had abused his power over her.

There was a disconnect between knowing the power of emotions, and accepting the lifetime of misery his father had inflicted on him, not due to anything he had done to deserve it, but as an expression of Rawste’s own negative emotions.

Rawste might have made a good Sith.

It meant that Zavahier was… what Rawste could have been if he had possessed a connection to the Force.

That thought repulsed him. To know that his similarities with his father extended beyond his face.

Yet whether he had intended it or not, Rawste’s cruelty was precisely what had given Zavahier the strength to become the Sith he was. If he had been taken to Korriban as a child, he would never have been strong enough to succeed, because he would never have _suffered_. He would have been like Karroh or Ffon, spoiled and entitled, raised with the knowledge of his power and never forced to struggle.

And yet…

A lot of powerful emotions warred for space in his mind. Anger at what Rawste had done, and for such petty reasons, too. Hatred of himself, as he realised how much like his father he truly was. Frustration that the truth had been kept from him for so long. Resentment of the fact that he could have been raised as a _person_, and would never have been subjected to the prejudice against slaves that he still had to fight against every day.

Because although that struggle made him stronger – and he knew that, really, he did – it was nevertheless a constant irritation that nobody would _ever_ accept him as Sith, all because of where he had come from.

The knowledge of what his life could have been, raised to use his power from a young age...

“Damn it!” Zavahier snarled, opening his eyes again. The air around him crackled with electricity, something beyond his ability to control.

But it frightened Yungif, who backed even further away from him, his huge eyes even larger than normal. “Look, that’s all I know, I swear,” the Nautolan said quickly.

Zavahier nodded slowly. He knew what he needed to do. He reached for his lightsabre, but didn’t immediately activate it. Instead, he regarded Yungif silently, watching to see if he tried to run, to fight, to plead for his life.

Yungif raised his hands and retreated another few paces, until his back was pressed against the foot of the Colossus. He radiated fear… but he didn’t seem particularly _surprised. _“You _inspired _me, Zavahier. I’m one of the Unchained because of you. When you used your power to kill Rawste, taking your revenge for everything he ever did to you… that was true strength. I wanted to be like that.”

“I know,” Zavahier replied as he walked towards Yungif. He pressed the hilt of his lightsabre against the man’s belly, and then activated it. Yungif’s body muffled the sound of the blade igniting, and concealed the glowing red light. And it was, ultimately, a swift and relatively painless death. A mercy, really, when Zavahier could have done so much more.

He deactivated his lightsabre and stepped away, letting Yungif’s body fall slumped across the Colossus’ massive toes.

Were they an accurate representation of the _actual_ Sith Lord?

Zavahier gave a small snort of amusement, imagining trying to get a holoimage of Zash’s toes in order to commission a statue of her.

If he’d had the credits, he might have done that just to see how she reacted. Maybe one day he’d be able to afford a small one. Just as an experiment. A chance to learn a bit more about his master.

He pushed that thought aside, and quickly searched Yungif’s pockets, recovering another piece of the archaeological plans. No surprise that the final, most important piece was carried by a prominent member of the Unchained. Then he stepped back and just stared at Yungif’s body, examining the emotions the sight provoked. They hadn’t been close when Zavahier had been a slave, but he knew Yungif and Icallijo were friends. Similarly aged, both aliens, both from outside Imperial territory…

What would Icallijo think of what he had done here?

Did it even matter?

Did a slave’s opinion count for anything anymore?

But Yungif had been worthy of respect. He’d seen through the laughable nature of this slave rebellion, and chosen to seek whatever power he could, following un-Vhol’s twisted version of the Sith Code. Yungif was strong. And he’d had the courage to tell Zavahier the truth about his past, something that nobody else had ever done.

However, there had been no choice about killing him. If the Empire decided to make use of the Unchained, then Zavahier didn’t want someone who knew so much about him working for another Sith. His past needed to be kept secret, and that meant Yungif had to be permanently silenced.

_Everyone_ Zavahier had known on Caekarro, every last one of his fellow slaves, had to die. He was fairly sure that he’d been quite thorough already, at least in purging the slaves that had been brought to Dromund Kaas. The others would have to be found. Even Icallijo. There might be a large number of his former friends still working for Lord Yunash on Caekarro. But for now, going after them was beyond Zavahier’s means. Zash would notice if he disappeared suddenly, pursuing his own goals rather than hers. So for now, he had to be content with what he’d achieved, biding his time until he could utterly destroy every last remnant of his past.

And he _wasn’t_ merely what Rawste could have been if he’d been Force-sensitive. Rawste had been weak and fearful, using cruelty to make himself feel stronger than he really was. He never would have made it as Sith. Zavahier was better than that. He used force when it suited him, but he didn’t _need_ it to satisfy his own ego or soothe his insecurities. And while his father had been good at dominating a few hundred slaves, that was the limit of his potential. He would have died on Korriban.

Zavahier would become so much greater than his father had ever hoped to be, all because he knew when he needed to kill… and when he did not.


	21. Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier has a lot to think about.

It was well past midnight by the time Zavahier returned to the outpost with Khem and Shâsot. He said very little about what had happened after he had gone on alone, saying only that he had located the slave cult and had secured their allegiance to the Empire. His conversation with Yungif – and subsequent murder – was left unsaid. If Khem suspected anything had happened, he didn’t mention it. Zavahier didn’t really _want_ to talk about it. What could possibly be said? The things he felt, all the anger and guilt and sadness, were a source of power. He would use them. At that meant holding onto them, letting himself feel uncomfortable and unhappy, rather than discharge those feelings by confiding in someone else.

Besides, he already knew what Khem would say.

That killing Yungif had been the right thing to do. And that learning more of his past – shameful though his origins were – was a source of strength.

Knowledge was power.

Knowing himself better made Zavahier stronger.

But he couldn’t settle down enough to sleep, despite exhaustion pressing against his mind. Using the Force to hide himself had proven to be a taxing ability to use, just due to the enormous amount of concentration and precision it required. It might be easier with practice… but Zavahier thought it would always be an ability that he had to use sparingly.

While he couldn’t sleep, he did at least let himself rest, changing into looser, more comfortable robes and then lying on his stomach on his bed. He propped himself up on his elbows and read through the cultists’ manifesto. It was every bit as insane as he had expected, and he couldn’t help but chuckle softly to himself when he was done. The cultists really did believe they could become Sith, and that brute strength alone would get them there. There was no cunning, no intelligence, no strength of will. Just the desire to kill.

But then, even _Sith_ who relied on physical strength alone, without a true understanding of the Sith Code, were little more than animals, really.

Not like Zavahier, who lived and breathed the philosophy of freedom through strength and passion. His understanding was incomplete, of course. His struggles with his own emotions were proof of that. But he was just an apprentice, his experience with the Force counted in months rather than years. Yet he sought to learn more. And that would never change. Not when he was a Sith Lord. Not when he was a Darth. Not even when he was Emperor of the entire galaxy.

He could see some value in the cultists’ manifesto, though. He understood the desires that had led to its creation. He knew why so many slaves found it appealing.

And he knew what it was like to not know things. Perhaps the best thing about becoming Sith was the education he had been given. Access to thousands of years of knowledge, learning to read and write, coming to understand not just the power he wielded, but to understand _himself_, too.

The slave cultists would never have the power they wanted. They would never have true freedom. But they would be free to serve the Empire.

Perhaps that would be enough for them.

And if Zavahier were completely honest with himself, he had to admit that a part of him was pleased that some of the rebel slaves would survive. None that he had an attachment to, that might be a weakness for other Sith to exploit. But the strongest slaves would live, and they would be useful. And they would have better lives than they did before the rebellion began. They’d certainly done what they could to earn it. Nobody could argue with that.

It would mean that all of this – the rebellion, the fighting, all the deaths – would not have been meaningless.

Zavahier set aside the cultists’ manifesto and moved on to studying the archaeological plans he had recovered. The three pieces together were enough to get a good idea of what was out there, and he was fairly certain that there was some kind of secret base underneath the Colossus. Exactly how Darth Skotia had managed that was a bit of a puzzle, though. Perhaps he had made some agreement with the Sith Lord who had commissioned the statue, allowing him to construct his base underneath it in exchange for… who could say?

A clever way of hiding a base, though. Nobody would ever expect it.

After concluding that the plans were complete enough for him to find the base, Zavahier attempted to call Zash. But there was no answer; unsurprising, really, given that it was the middle of the night and she had likely already gone to bed.

So he spent the rest of the night writing in his journal, recording the events of the day and trying to make sense of it all. He wrote about all the people he’d killed just to prove that he _could_ kill them, the feelings that choice had stirred within him, and the newly discovered similarities between him and his father. It was all written down in his rather unsteady hand. He had only learned to read and write after becoming Sith – Rawste had denied him an education – and his handwriting still left a lot to be desired. But that was why he wrote his journal by hand. It forced him to practice, and to learn how to spell words properly. His datapad would correct his spelling automatically, removing the challenge.

And there was something rather enjoyable about the tactile sensation of putting ink to paper, as well as the feeling of luxury it conferred. A datapad was functional and practical, and Zavahier used it for a great many things… but keeping a handwritten journal felt like a connection to the ancient Sith of the past, reminiscent of the books and scrolls in Korriban’s archives.

Zavahier finished writing an hour before dawn, and was _almost_ drifting off to sleep, his exhaustion finally catching up with him, when his holocomm chirped to inform him of an incoming call. He yawned and sat up, before answering the call with the device held in the palm of his hand.

It was Zash.

“Good morning, Ezerdus!” she greeted cheerfully. “I noticed you tried to call me a few hours ago. Does this mean you’ve found them? You’ve found the archaeological plans?”

“Have I ever failed you?” Zavahier asked, answering her question with one of his own. One of these days, Zash – and the rest of the Empire – would realise that he could do anything he set his mind to.

“Fantastic. I never doubted you,” Zash reassured him, offering him a smile.

Zavahier transmitted the plans to Zash, allowing her to peruse them in her office while he looked at the originals. “Hope there’s not too much blood on them,” he said, in an attempt at humour that felt completely at odds with his present mood. But Zash was making the effort to be nice to him, so he would play along with her good humour.

Zash chuckled. “Oh no, no – I’ve read much, much worse,” she said. “Now, let me see… ah, yes. How clever – there’s a chamber hidden under the Colossus itself. I’d bet my complete collection of Naga Sadow’s Yavin Four writings that you’ll find what we’re looking for in this chamber.”

Ooh.

Add _that_ to the reasons why he needed to kill Zash one day! Anything written by Naga Sadow was guaranteed to be interesting reading.

“Yes, I saw that as well. I’ll get inside if I have to destroy the whole Colossus,” Zavahier said, covering his desire for Zash’s possessions beneath his enthusiasm for destruction. Blowing things up was always enjoyable.

“Such zeal! But destroying the Colossus won’t be necessary,” Zash told him, sounding highly amused… but not at all displeased. There were worse traits for an apprentice than an eager appetite for destruction. “There should be a hidden entrance near the Colossus.”

“I think I know where it is, actually,” Zavahier said after a moment. “Do you see where that road seems to just end abruptly? It was used to bring in construction machinery, and it looks quite obvious _now_, but in a few months it will be hidden by the undergrowth, and no one would ever know it was anything but a supply road.”

“Good thinking, Ezerdus,” Zash said, doing that strange and vaguely uncomfortable thing where she just kept complimenting him, reassuring him of his worth and how much she appreciated his efforts.

It always made him feel _more_ uncertain rather than less. Zavahier wasn’t used to compliments. _Nobody_ looked at him and found something nice to say.

“It looks like Skotia has an entire underground base in there. You’re looking for a tablet,” Zash continued, either not noticing his uncertainty, or simply not caring.

“Well, that narrows it down,” Zavahier said. It did sound faintly ridiculous when Zash worded it that way: one single tablet hidden inside a whole base. Like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Zash laughed again. “I’m sure you’ll manage just fine. It will be in a hidden chamber somewhere deep inside the base. I believe the tablet is the symbol of leadership of an obscure Trandoshan cult – the lizards believe it was a gift from their deity, the Scorekeeper. Skotia stole the tablet and uses it to exert control over his Trandoshan bodyguards. Give them their relic, and Skotia’s power over them will turn to vapour.”

“I like it,” Zavahier said, nodding appreciatively. “It will leave Skotia undefended.”

“Exactly. You have a sharp mind, apprentice,” Zash said warmly.

Again with the compliments. Zavahier would have felt more at ease if she had been insulting his intelligence and telling him he would never be good enough.

“I wonder if I could use it to turn the Trandoshans against him,” he said after a moment.

“You could try it – it might weaken him a little. But Skotia’s not stupid enough to retain guards who could actually overpower him,” Zash said, dismissing the idea.

Oddly enough, Zavahier actually felt _disappointed_. Maybe he enjoyed her praise more than he would have liked to admit.

“The main thing is to keep Skotia’s bodyguards off _you_. You’ll be able to kill him more easily if you don’t have to fight the Trandoshans as well,” Zash added. “Now, the plans suggest Skotia’s apprentices guard this base. I don’t doubt they hold the keys to acquiring the Trandoshan tablet. Best kill them all to be sure.”

“Command me and I will eat them,” Khem said.

“Hmm… I think I’d rather kill them myself,” Zavahier replied.

There was a light laugh from Zash. “I’m sure there will be enough for _both_ of you to have your fun. You know, I’m actually a little jealous. But I’ll leave you to it. Have fun, apprentice,” she said, and then ended the call.

Zavahier pocketed his holocomm, and then turned to Khem. “How many apprentices do you think Skotia has in there?”

Khem replied with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “Five. Ten. A hundred. It does not matter. I will devour them all.”

“Well, as long as you leave a couple of them for me to kill. I’m hardly going to get better at killing other Sith if you do all the work for me,” Zavahier said, and he began to stand up, but he only got halfway to his feet before Khem pushed him back down onto the bed.

“Rest first, little one,” Khem said. “Even Tulak Hord knew when to let himself rest, and you do not have his strength.”

Zavahier opened his mouth to argue, but interrupted himself with a yawn, and he was forced to concede that Khem probably had a point. He had been awake all night, and while none of the battles he’d fought the previous day had been particularly challenging, there had been a lot of them, each requiring an expenditure of energy that he now needed to recover from.

That was another piece of the legacy Rawste had left him: a weak body with little stamina. He had grown stronger since becoming Sith – he got to eat every day, and Korriban’s heavy gravity had helped him build muscle – but it would take more than a few months for him to fully recover from the damage his father had inflicted. If he ever did. He was, perhaps, a little resigned to knowing he would never be as strong as he liked, and that his body might let him down at exactly the wrong moment. He hated that. But, as far as he could tell, there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. For all the power the Force offered him, giving himself the physical strength he wanted seemed an impossibility.

And while his emotions gave him the strength to push beyond his physical limits, if he was going to face Skotia’s apprentices – however many of them there were – he would need more than determination alone.

So he laid down again, shifting into a comfortable position on his side, and looked up at Khem. “Wake me in a couple of hours.”

“Of course, little Sith,” Khem answered, turning and leaving the tent to allow Zavahier to sleep in peace.

And it was an odd thing, was it not? Zavahier knew that Khem fully intended on devouring him one day, and while he was sleeping seemed like the perfect opportunity for the Dashade to do so. And yet Zavahier knew that Khem wouldn’t. He actually _trusted_ Khem to protect him while he slept, and he was sure that it wasn’t just due to Khem’s sense of honour, or even the Force bond between them.

Whatever Khem said about Zavahier’s weakness, beneath it there really was some genuine – albeit grudging – respect, and a willingness to serve. As long as Zavahier continued to prove himself strong - or at least, not too weak - Khem would be loyal.

And as Zavahier drifted into sleep, he resolved to let Khem kill at least one of Skotia’s apprentices, just because he knew the Dashade would enjoy the opportunity.

In his mind’s eye, the dark tomb was now a familiar location, the place he haunted whenever he slept. He moved, incorporeal, through the shadows, stirring up little eddies of dark emotion. There was such rage here, but Zavahier was so accustomed to it that it no longer frightened him. He knew, on some instinctive level, that it wasn’t directed at him. Others were intruders, unwelcome and threatening, but he _belonged_. His power resonated with this place.

But now there was something else.

Something sensed his guilt, his unhappiness, his distaste for the similarities between him and his father, and it recoiled from him.

Uncertain.

Confused.

Then it radiated understanding.

And fury.

Not at Zavahier, precisely, but at the reality of his existence.

A pulse of rage swept out from the darkness, lashing out at everything in reach.

Zavahier was caught in the blast. Felt searing pain. Cried out.

He woke to Khem’s massive hands on his shoulders, shaking him forcefully. Instinctively, still half in his dreams, he struck Khem with a bolt of lightning, who absorbed it easily, completely unharmed.

“Wake up, little Sith,” Khem said, giving him another shake. “Are you hurt?”

“I—what? No,” Zavahier replied, sitting up and looking around. Khem was leaning over him, and Shâsot had curled up on the foot of the bed, but was now staring at him with wide eyes. “I was dreaming…”

“Did something attack you?” Khem asked, taking the whole thing very seriously, and expressing far more concern than Zavahier would have thought him capable of.

“Yes. Well, sort of. I don’t think it was attacking _me_ exactly. But…” Zavahier said, and then trailed off. “There was something out there. I’ve been sensing it for a while now. I… I think I made it angry. Or… something about me angered it. I don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“And your mental shields are not strong enough to protect you from this dream-hunter?” Khem asked.

“Apparently not,” Zavahier replied, shaking his head. He wasn’t really sure he would have said the presence was hunting him. That didn’t feel right. It felt more like he was being drawn to it. Or it was being drawn to him. Like they were connected somehow. “I suppose I should practice some more. And when we go back to Kaas City, I’ll do some research on dreams. Maybe it’s nothing, and they’re just dreams… but with the Force… Well, maybe there’s more to it. Did Tulak Hord ever have strange dreams?”

Khem shook his head. “No, he did not. But you are not Tulak Hord.”

“Yes, yes, I get it already. I’m nothing compared to him,” Zavahier grumbled.

“It is not an insult this time. Your powers are different to Tulak Hord’s. You do not fight as well, but he did not produce lightning like yours,” Khem said. “He did not have strange dreams, but that does not mean that you cannot.”

“Alright, then,” Zavahier said. He got out of bed and put on his armoured robes. There was little point in trying to sleep any more. The presence – whatever it was – would only lash out again, defeating the point of _resting_. He would have to make do with what strength he had, the energy regained from…

Zavahier checked the chronometer in his datapad.

Oh, two hours of sleep.

Lovely.

He yawned again, and ventured out of the tent. The outpost had a mess tent, and he sat at a table in the corner to eat breakfast, still pondering the dream. He came up with no easy answers. It would have been more reassuring to just write it off as nothing more than a dream, but he couldn’t help but feel it was more than that. The pain had been real. He still felt it now, not a physical pain in his body, but something more… spiritual. His mind, his spirit, his connection to the Force. These all tingled with pain, as though his very essence had been struck with a blast of dark energy.

Not exactly the best of circumstances to be heading into a secret base filled with an unknown number of Sith.

But pain would keep him alert.

After eating, Zavahier sought out the officer who’d asked him to investigate the slave cult, and found him up on the wall again, leaning on the railings and gazing at the Colossus. There was little slave activity in the immediate area now, but there were pinpricks of movement around the base of the statue, where surviving slaves – probably mostly Unchained now – scurried like insects. Zavahier moved to lean against the railings as well, by the officer’s side.

“It’s good to see you back,” the man said, glancing sideways at Zavahier. “I knew those slaves couldn’t hold their own against you.”

“They didn’t really stand a chance,” Zavahier confirmed. The unease, that tiny prickle of guilt, was fading. His adventures amongst the slaves had served their purpose, teaching him that he could have a distaste for the practice of slavery, without being so sympathetic to slaves that he couldn’t destroy them.

“I take it you managed to track down one of the murderers. What’s their story? Can we use them?” the officer asked.

“They’re crazy, but they may be useful,” Zavahier replied. “They’re willing to serve the Empire. I have their oath of allegiance here.”

“What do you mean? Let me see that datapad,” the officer said, taking it from him and reading through it quickly. “This is madness. They’re serious? Slaves who think they can become Sith!”

A few angry sparks of lightning burst into the air around Zavahier. The officer sprang away from him in alarm, even as a couple of the purple sparks struck his armour. “A slave _can_ become Sith. Never forget that,” Zavahier said warningly. Just because _those_ slaves were insane didn’t mean that _no_ slave could ever be Sith.

“My apologies, my lord,” the officer said quickly. “I just—No. You’re right, of course.”

He paused for a moment, as if waiting to see what Zavahier would do next. But the apology was enough. The officer had learned his lesson, and would never question Zavahier’s position amongst the Sith again.

“I’ll inform Command. I’m not—I’m not actually authorised to speak with the Sith Lords on the blockade, but I’ll make sure they know, too,” the officer said. “It’s been an honour working with you. I—I hope we meet again.”

That was an odd thing to say, Zavahier thought. How many Imperial officers _hoped_ to meet a Sith again? Especially one who had only just stopped short of threatening to kill them? But if the officer wasn’t usually allowed to speak to Sith, maybe the fact that Zavahier had spoken to him and helped him at all made him look different to most Sith. Perhaps his background as a slave was part of it too, opening up the man’s mind to something he had never thought about before. It suggested the officer valued knowledge.

A shame they probably would never meet again.


	22. Bunker Busting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier finds plenty of mischief in the secret base. Skotia really should have hidden it better.

Zavahier was about as prepared for this as he was going to be. Poorly rested, still at odds with himself, and feeling a tangle of conflicting emotions, it was not how he would have liked to launch an assault on Darth Skotia’s hidden base and all his apprentices. But that was probably for the best. Feeling unprepared for this was perhaps the best way to ensure he fought at his best. If he failed, he would die. And that knowledge would keep him sharp. His passions would give him strength. His fear would make him alert. The deaths of the slaves were proof that he could do anything he set his mind to.

He made no effort to conceal himself – or Khem and Shâsot – as he made his way towards the Colossus. By now all the slaves in the area knew that they should avoid him if they wanted to keep their lives, and he projected an aura of fear that sent most of them fleeing in the opposite direction long before he even reached them. Less satisfying – and painful – than killing them, but sufficient to assert his dominance over the area, and give him an easy path to the Colossus. Zavahier wanted to conserve his strength for Skotia’s apprentices.

The archaeological plans had been scanned into his datapad and combined into a coherent map, and he followed the machinery road – only a path of churned up mud, really – towards the Colossus. It brought him to the base of the unfinished statue, and then petered out completely. Exactly as he had expected.

Zavahier looked up at the Colossus, seeing Yungif’s body still lying across its toes. His murder looked ritualistic enough that the other slaves seemed reluctant to interfere with the body. But seeing him lying there in the light of day, his green skin fading to a sickly off-white, was a little uncomfortable. He kept looking anyway, drinking in the sight and letting himself really _feel_ his natural reaction to it, building up his emotions and strengthening his connection to the Force.

And then he walked around the base of the Colossus, letting his instincts guide him to…

Yes.

Right there.

The base of the statue was partially embedded into the surrounding cliffs, so that the rock helped to support the great weight of the Colossus, and where the base met the cliff, there was an entrance to a cave. It was broad enough to allow the entrance of heavy machinery and equipment, and could only be considered ‘hidden’ in comparison to the immense size of the Colossus above.

Zavahier walked into the cave and followed it deep into the cliff. It sloped downwards and then curved to the left, straightened for a short distance, and then twisted sharply to the right. He kept expecting to come across some guards, or even be ambushed by Skotia’s apprentices, but the path was clear. Eventually the tunnel widened, and daylight filtered in from high above, where the ceiling had at some point caved in. Small green plants grew from heaped piles of earth, a tiny underground oasis.

And directly ahead was Skotia’s hidden base.

The entrance was wide open, and so Zavahier paused in his steps, now incredibly wary. He had been expecting to find a sealed door that he would have to blast his way through. An open door to a secret base was suspicious. Darth Skotia can’t _really_ have expected Zavahier not to find this place, could he?

Uncertainty held Zavahier in place for several minutes as he tried to figure out what trap was waiting for him.

An open door really was too easy.

There _had_ to be something nasty waiting for someone who just happened to wander in, surely?

But he could see nothing. Sense nothing. So he took a few steps forward into the base, holding himself ready to leap back if he sensed incoming danger.

Nothing happened.

“I guess Skotia’s very confident in his security,” Zavahier remarked, and began to walk with more confidence into the base, followed by Khem and Shâsot.

“Overconfidence is a weakness for many Sith. And caution when entering an enemy’s territory is wise,” Khem agreed, approving of Zavahier’s paranoia about just walking openly into Skotia’s base.

They didn’t get far before the reason for the wide open entrance became apparent. From behind came the rumbling of a vehicle, and Zavahier only barely managed to wrap himself and his companions in a cloak before a troop transport came through the tunnel and drove directly into the base. He kept himself, Khem and Shâsot hidden for as long as possible, before his concentration wavered – he wondered how Skotia maintained secrecy while bringing transports right into the base – and the cloak collapsed.

Too soon.

The troop transport hadn’t passed them before they became visible again, and the driver raised the alarm. The back doors of the transport were flung open, and a group of soldiers leaped out; first two, then four, then six…

Ten in total, plus their commanding officer, who fixed his gaze on Zavahier and ordered, “Intruders! Open fire!”

“Kill them,” Zavahier snapped at Khem and Shâsot.

The soldiers raised their blasters and began shooting. Zavahier only barely managed to raise a protective barrier around himself in time, and one blaster bolt hit his armour; but the others were safely absorbed into the Force shield. He drew and activated his lightsabre, and flung a bolt of lightning at the leading officer.

By then, Khem and Shâsot had leaped into the fray. Khem slashed at the soldiers, and growled in pleasure as he absorbed a little of their essence as they died. Shâsot pounced on one man and tore out his throat, spraying both himself and Khem with blood.

Zavahier left them to rampage through the soldiers, and walked around to the front of the transport. He reached out with the Force and tore open the door of the driver’s compartment, hurling it at the group of soldiers. Several were knocked roughly to the ground as the door slammed into them, and Khem seized the opportunity to kill them before they had the chance to get back to their feet. The driver began to climb out of the transport, but didn’t get far before Zavahier hit him with a powerful surge of lightning, and then stabbed him in the belly with his lightsabre for good measure.

When they were all dead – which didn’t take long, even with Zavahier holding back his full strength – Zavahier looked down at them. He didn’t feel guilty for these deaths. Not at all. Faintly _annoyed_, actually, that these Imperial soldiers were so loyal to Darth Skotia that they were willing to die for him.

And what _was_ Skotia doing with this base?

Well, building an army, obviously. Which suggested that Skotia had some ambitious plans. The kind of plans that required an army, and the backing of the Imperial military. Zavahier considered this, and decided that regardless of the actual wording of Zash’s orders, the _spirit_ of his mission here was to strike at Skotia’s powerbase, thus weakening him. Zash hadn’t known about the army being gathered here, but if she _did_ know…

“Khem, we need to kill _everyone_ in this base. Every Sith, every soldier, every droid,” Zavahier said. “Anyone who has any loyalty to Skotia whatsoever must die.”

“Very good, little Sith. I will devour them all,” Khem said.

They set off once again, but they didn’t get far before Zavahier paused, and looked back at the troop transport. He raised his hand and directed a bolt of lightning at the engine. There was a loud _bang_, and it burst into flames. Now it was a large barrier blocking the entrance, preventing other transports from coming in, and making it harder for large groups of people to escape.

And blowing up the engine was just really _fun_!

He really didn’t get to make things explode anywhere near as often as he would have liked.

Now Zavahier turned his attention wholly onto the base, and followed the long entrance corridor as it sloped downwards. It brought him into a surprisingly large room; the ceiling was some thirty metres above his head, which seemed a little excessive, but on the left side of the room he saw a large platform – accessible via two ramps – with what looked like some kind of security console at the top, overlooking the whole room. In front of him were two more troop transports, so he took a few moments to destroy their engines as well, utilising his lightsabre this time, and then gave the row of computer terminals on the right side of the room the same treatment. Destroying as much of Skotia’s equipment as possible appealed to his sense of mischief.

Of course, the sound of all that destruction began to draw attention.

Not from soldiers or droids, but from a Sith, who launched himself off the platform straight at Zavahier. He activated not one, but two lightsabres mid-flight, and landed on the floor just a couple of metres away from Zavahier.

As the other Sith closed the distance between them, Zavahier brought his lightsabre up to parry the first lightsabre, and he dodged sideways to evade the second. But then the Sith was swinging the first lightsabre again, forcing Zavahier to back away. The pure aggression of the other Sith’s attack was hard to stand up against, and Zavahier found himself on the defensive, constantly moving backwards or twisting to the side, dodging some blows and warding off others with his lightsabre. He’d never fought someone wielding two weapons before.

He had to put all his concentration into following the movements of two blades, relying on the Force to predict where they would be next, just to avoid being cut in half by the flurry of swift, aggressive attacks. Each time Zavahier dodged, his enemy followed, seeking to press every advantage. And it all happened very quickly. Dodge, block, parry, use his own momentum to turn on the spot, parry again, and then…

Thrust!

With a quick flourish of his lightsabre, Zavahier jabbed at the other Sith’s shoulder, taking advantage of a tiny gap in the man’s defences. The two lightsabres created a difficult barrier to get past, but not impossible. The advantage of Makashi was _precision_.

It didn’t do much damage. But Zavahier’s lightsabre left a mark on the other Sith’s armour.

The Sith roared in anger, a primal scream amplified by the Force, assaulting Zavahier’s senses. For a moment, the sound overwhelmed everything else, and he staggered backwards, dazed by the sheer volume, and what felt like a blast of raw Force energy. His ears were ringing, blocking out every other sound. The Sith slashed at him with one lightsabre, and Zavahier raised his hand instinctively. The lightsabre smashed into his hastily erected barrier. The other lightsabre followed a split second later.

The shield would hold only as long as he concentrated, channelling his fear into the barrier.

His opponent sensed this, and with a snarl of rage, he hammered Zavahier’s shield with both lightsabres, trying to simply batter through it with a quick one-two pattern.

Zavahier held himself ready, waiting for the tiny gap that came between the attacks.

Wait for it.

Hold steady.

Wait.

And _now_!

Just after the Sith completed one attack and raised his lightsabres to begin the next, Zavahier abandoned his shield and sent a violent blast of Force energy into the other Sith’s chest. The mixture of lightning and kinetic energy threw him backwards, giving Zavahier time to turn and run in the opposite direction.

He wasn’t fleeing, though.

Zavahier gathered himself, drawing on his power, and launched upwards, landing neatly on top of one of the troop transports. Then he turned, and readied himself.

The Sith did exactly what Zavahier hoped he would. After regaining his feet, he leaped into the air, hurtling towards Zavahier…

He ducked, allowing the other Sith to fly over his head, and then he twisted around, hitting the Sith in the back with a bolt of lightning.

The Sith crashed onto the floor, but Zavahier didn’t hesitate, nor allow him chance to recover. He unleashed a powerful stream of lightning at his enemy, wreathing him in purple light. The Sith’s mouth was wide, but Zavahier couldn’t hear the screams, nor the crack of thunder from his lightning. But he could _feel_ his enemy’s pain, his terror, his rage at being defeated.

And then he felt the Sith’s life end.

Zavahier jumped down from the roof of the transport and went over to the dead Sith, claiming both his lightsabres as trophies. One was rather scorched and charred – and likely no longer functional as a result – but it was still worth claiming just as proof of Zavahier’s power. The other lightsabre was a little dented, but otherwise undamaged. A potential backup weapon, should his own ever be lost or broken beyond repair. And a fine memento of his victory.

Yes, he felt rather pleased with himself.

His ears were still ringing from the Sith’s roar of rage, however. He saw Khem’s mouth move, but couldn’t hear the words. “I can’t hear you, Khem,” he said, raising his voice and still only barely about to make out the sound of his own voice.

“That will teach you not to allow another Sith to scream at you,” Khem said, speaking loudly enough that Zavahier could hear.

The initial reaction to this criticism was a defensive one, and he squared his shoulders as he opened his mouth to argue. But then he caught himself, hesitating because he realised that if he didn’t acknowledge the mistakes he made, then he’d never learn from them. Khem had made a valid point. He was powerful, yes, but that didn’t mean he was perfect, and there was still a lot he needed to learn about fighting other Force-users. The moment he believed there was nothing left to learn, the moment he stopped challenging himself to do better, that would be the moment when he stopped being Sith.

“Next time I’ll be sure to kill my enemy _before_ he has the chance to scream in my face,” Zavahier said.

He climbed the ramp that led onto the platform, and went to the security station the Sith had been guarding. Within the computer, Zavahier found all the information he could possibly want about Skotia’s hidden base: a map of the complex, which he downloaded into his datapad, and the locations of three monitoring stations, each guarded by one of Skotia’s apprentices. And the names of those apprentices too. While there was nothing to show him exactly where the Trandoshan relic was, nor any marked secret chambers, there was a blind corridor that seemed to end suddenly in the western side of the base.

“I think that’s where we’ll find the relic,” Zavahier said. “But we need to disable these monitoring stations first. I don’t want Skotia to know that we’re here.” He paused for a moment, considering the layout of the base, and then pointed out a room shown on the map. “Khem, I want you to go to this room. Destroy any equipment within, and feel free to eat Skotia’s apprentice while you’re at it.”

“Very well, little Sith,” Khem said, clearly more than happy to follow that particular command.

“I’ll go here,” Zavahier said, indicating a second room that supposedly contained a monitoring station – and another apprentice. “If all goes well, we’ll meet at the third monitoring station here, and then go to the hidden chamber together.”

With their course of action figured out and decided upon, Zavahier deactivated the security console, shutting down the base’s main security. No cameras to observe his actions, no droids alerted to his presence, no alarms blaring in his ears – at least his hearing was gradually returning – and absolutely no messages sent to Darth Skotia to warn him of an intruder in his supposedly hidden base.

Everything was going—

No.

No thoughts like that.

The moment Zavahier let himself think things were looking good for the future, would be the exact moment where it all went horribly wrong. Much better to view the whole thing with a sensible degree of paranoia and cynicism.

This was _not_ going to be easy.

This was a challenge.

Another one of those life and death situations.

Or, in other words, another day in the life of a Sith.

Khem lumbered off towards the monitoring station he’d been assigned to, and Zavahier went in the other direction with Shâsot padding by his side. He descended down the ramp, and then crossed the main room, passing the troop transports. Beyond was a broad corridor, and thanks to the deactivation of the security station – and the slaughter of everyone who’d crossed his path coming into the base – nobody seemed to be aware of his presence. He ambushed and destroyed a small group of patrolling droids, and in a side room he found what appeared to be some kind of barracks. There were a handful of off-duty sentries, who were killed with a barrage of lightning. Zavahier found his power in his contempt for how weak all of Skotia’s followers seemed to be.

And he _hated_ them for not providing him with a worthwhile challenge.

The monitoring station was a circular room; the walls were lined with computers, and another console stood in the centre. Of more immediate interest, however, was the Sith working at the main computer at the back of the room. If the information he had taken from the base’s security computer was correct, this was Satik, one of Skotia’s apprentices.

Zavahier walked towards him, moving silently, and keeping his hand on Shâsot’s neck to hold the Tuk’ata back from attacking. But he didn’t quite manage to take Satik unawares; the Sith sensed his approach and turned to face him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Satik said darkly, reaching for his lightsabre.

“And yet, here I am.” Zavahier drew and ignited his weapon as well.

“Do you – a mere slave – think you can trespass in Darth Skotia’s base and live to tell the tale?” Satik asked.

“Aww, has Skotia been talking about me? Isn’t that lovely?” Zavahier said. Annoying though it was to once again be seen as nothing but a slave, at least this time he knew it had to be because other Sith were actually talking about him. Otherwise, how would this one know who he was?

It was actually a little flattering, if he thought about it that way.

Yes, they all looked down on him. But even by complaining about his very existence, they spread his reputation further than he ever could have done himself.

“Everyone’s been talking about you. The slave who thinks he can be Sith,” the Sith replied. “Skotia will make me a lord when I show him your corpse.”

“Hmm… I haven’t decided what I’ll do with your corpse yet. Perhaps I’ll dance on it,” Zavahier said. “Or maybe I’ll throw it at Skotia’s big, ugly face to show him the futility of trying to kill _me_.” He paused for a moment, and then smiled at his opponent. “Perhaps I’ll just let Shâsot here eat you once I’m done with you. And then shove your bones up Skotia’s—”

Satik gave a snarl of rage and launched himself forward, cutting Zavahier off before he could finish the threat. They exchanged several quick attacks with their lightsabres, each slash and thrust parried or dodged by the other. Zavahier moved back, and back again, and slightly to the side, following the curve of the room without backing himself against the wall. He wanted Satik to think he had the upper hand, that Zavahier was struggling to counter his powerful, aggressive slashes.

And he wanted Satik to make a mistake.

Time to be _really_ annoying.

“For that matter, does Skotia even _have_ an arse? Or is it all metal? Have you checked?” Zavahier asked.

Back again.

And duck.

Shâsot lunged at Satik, his powerful jaws snapping at the Sith’s leg. Satik jumped back and whirled to face the Tuk’ata, slashing at his shoulder and leaving a burned welt. But doing so meant turning away from Zavahier.

A mistake.

Zavahier took the opportunity and tore at Satik’s armour with the Force, until the cortosis plates twisted and buckled. Not by much. But perhaps enough. When the right moment came, the damage to Satik’s armour would make all the difference.

But not yet.

“I bet you have,” Zavahier said, seeking to irritate Satik still further. He enjoyed the anger he sensed building in his opponent. He kept dodging and blocking Satik’s attacks, while conserving his own strength, waiting for the moment when the right opportunity presented itself. “Have you been naughty, Satik? Peeking at your master when he’s not looking? Maybe I should let you live, and tell Skotia you’ve been ogling his big, shiny posterior.”

There was no truth in those words. No genuine accusation. No real belief that Satik _had_ been gazing lovingly at Skotia’s rear end.

Just a desire to be annoying.

“By the stars, will you _shut up_!” Satik snarled, the last two words punctuated with a powerful wave of energy.

The force of it threw Zavahier backwards, and his body slammed into the wall, then dropped to the floor. His lightsabre was torn out of his hand, clattering to the floor several metres away. He felt Satik reach out, tendrils of Force energy wrapping around his throat. The instinct was to claw at his neck, to pry away the invisible fingers that were strangling him. A very powerful instinct, but one he resisted. He sent out a pulse of his own power, tingling with purple sparks, that shattered Satik’s hold on him.

And then, even before climbing to his feet, he struck the computer console in the centre of the room with a bolt of lightning.

It exploded with a satisfyingly loud _bang_.

Explosions were fun!

But Satik leaped away from it just in time, narrowly avoiding taking the brunt of the explosion.

It distracted him, however, giving Zavahier time to get back to his feet, and to pull his lightsabre into his waiting hand. When Satik charged at him again, he was ready. He deflected Satik’s lightsabre, and in one swift motion, brought his blade around and stabbed Satik in the belly, right through the gap in his damaged armour.

The Sith let out a strangled gasp and dropped his weapon, clutching at his stomach.

Zavahier reached out and wrapped Satik in lightning. “Scream for me, weakling.”

And Satik did. It was delightful, those screams of agony torn from an enemy’s throat. Zavahier drew them out for as long as possible, just to enjoy his victory, feeding on Satik’s pain and terror. It was over too soon, really. Satik fell backwards onto the floor, dead from the wound in his stomach long before Zavahier was bored of torturing him.

Zavahier took a moment to rip Satik’s armour open still further, exposing the burned flesh underneath. “He’s all yours, Shâsot.”

It felt like a special insult, didn’t it?

To have his enemy’s body consumed like beast fodder, unworthy of respect even in death.

Shâsot eagerly began devouring Satik’s corpse, while Zavahier claimed the Sith’s lightsabre. Another trophy for his collection. He went to the monitoring station and destroyed it with a blast of lightning, and then went to the doorway, looking out into the corridor beyond. It was clear, so he made his way towards the next monitoring station; Shâsot would catch up with him when he’d finished eating. In the meantime, Zavahier would deal with the next apprentice.

But as it turned out – rather disappointingly – there was no need. Khem emerged from the third monitoring station, and though his expression was hard to read, he radiated pleasure and satisfaction.

“You took too long, little Sith, so I devoured this one without you,” the Dashade said, indicating the rather mangled form of Quilon.

“And the other one?” Zavahier asked.

“Also dead,” Khem confirmed.

Well, Zavahier couldn’t say he wasn’t disappointed that Khem had killed _two_ apprentices without him. He had been looking forward to killing the last one himself, albeit with Khem’s help. But at least it was done, and all three monitoring stations had been deactivated. Maybe efficiency was more important than Zavahier’s own personal pleasure. But he was still disappointed.

Perhaps Khem sensed this, because he said, “I learned that the relic is guarded by the oldest of Skotia’s apprentices. A Sith Lord.”

“He’s mine,” Zavahier said immediately, staking his claim. He would kill this Sith Lord himself. A _real_ challenge to his abilities, far beyond what the apprentices had been.

There was a rumble of amusement from Khem. “I thought you would say that, little Sith. Very well. It will be your fight.”

Zavahier had expected a bit more of an argument over the matter, since a Sith Lord promised to be a very enjoyable meal for Khem. But the Dashade had to follow Zavahier’s orders… and perhaps he wanted to see if Zavahier could actually defeat a Sith who was, in theory, vastly more powerful than he was.

It really would be a _wonderful_ test of his strength.

Exciting, wasn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weekly updates will continue for the month of May! It looks like we'll start to see lockdowns eased by June, so fortnightly updates will resume then.


	23. Challenges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier faces a challenging opponent.

Now rather eager – and perhaps a little pleased that he had only needed to fight two of the apprentices, so he wasn’t as tired as he otherwise might have been – Zavahier followed the corridor through the depths of Skotia’s base, until he reached the place where, on the map at least, there was simply a dead end. In reality, the corridor ended with a small room, and at the very back was a door guarded by four droids. Khem charged into their midst, hacking at their metal bodies with his vibrosword, while Zavahier picked them off with small bolts of lightning. He allowed Khem to do most of the work, though; he wanted to conserve his strength for whoever was on the other side of that door. Shâsot caught up with them just as the last droid fell. The Tuk’ata’s jaws and fur were stained with blood, and his eyes glowed with pleasure. Zavahier smiled, and ruffled Shâsot’s mane.

The door itself was locked. There seemed to be no obvious way of opening it, either, with no access panel to the side, and no key cards amongst the ruins of the droids. Zavahier considered this, and then stepped back. He stretched out his senses, drawing on the Force, on his deepest passions, and then…

A surge of power was sent from his hands towards the door, blasting it open and sending twisted chunks of metal into the room beyond.

Zavahier stepped through the smoking wreckage, and his first impression of the room – no, _reliquary_, wasn’t that just the perfect word for this room? – was that Skotia had amassed quite a collection of fascinating relics. Some pieces had been destroyed by the force of his entry into the room, but others, further away from the door, had survived.

And would be claimed. For himself, of course. Zash didn’t need to know what he’d found beyond just the Trandoshan tablet.

But first he had to deal with the Sith Lord guarding them. Unsurprisingly, Zavahier’s explosive entrance had not gone unnoticed, and the man – middle-aged, balding, and showing the effects of a life spent eating far more than his fair share of cakes – strode towards him with his lightsabre already activated. And it was…

“You have a _purple_ lightsabre!” Zavahier said, momentarily distracted from the task of killing the man, and completely unable to restrain his delight at the newfound knowledge that a lightsabre didn’t have to be red, blue or green. He wanted one! A purple lightsabre to match his lightning! “How did you—”

“_This_ is who Lord Zash sends to face me?” the Sith Lord interrupted, stopping in his tracks to give Zavahier an utterly appalled look. “A _child_ that’s only concerned with the colour of a blade?”

Well, at least the Sith Lord wasn’t insulting him for being a former slave.

Being called a child wasn’t much better, though.

But Zavahier’s moment of distraction had distracted the other Sith in turn.

Wasn’t _that_ a lovely piece of irony?

Zavahier aimed a bolt of lightning right at the Sith’s sneering face, hoping to catch him unawares. But the man raised his lightsabre just in time, using it to absorb the lightning. Then he moved forward, surprisingly quickly for a man of such a broad stature, and Zavahier sprinted forward as well, closing the distance between them. They met in the only part of the room where there was enough room for such a duel: right in the middle.

Khem stayed at the entrance to the room, giving Zavahier the space to fight his battle on his own. And he took hold of Shâsot’s collar as the Tuk’ata began to move forward, clearly wanting to join in. Shâsot growled and snapped his teeth at Khem.

The other Sith used his weapon with much greater skill than any of the apprentices Zavahier had fought. Each slash was powerful, but also controlled. This was a man who knew what he was doing. He had practiced and trained. Beneath all the fat, there was apparently some muscle… and pure strength in the Force. Zavahier knew from first-hand experience that the Force could make up for a great deal of physical weakness.

Still, this Sith’s great size had to be a weakness he could exploit. Even with the Force to assist him, he was large… and would therefore be clumsy. Zavahier’s agility was his advantage.

So he put on a burst of speed, darting around to the side to avoid a broad slash from that wonderful purple lightsabre. He leaped over a display cabinet containing an ancient-looking pair of gauntlets, and the Sith Lord charged after him, knocking the cabinet askew in the process. But Zavahier was quicker. He twisted to the side as his opponent reached him, and then kicked him in the ribs, adding to the momentum of the Sith’s attack.

The man stumbled, but stretched out his hand to brace himself against another display case, preventing himself from falling. The cabinet toppled over and shattered, covering the floor in shards of glass and leaving its contents scattered amongst them.

Zavahier pressed his advantage as his enemy regained his balance, striking him with a bolt of lightning and then leaping away before the Sith could retaliate.

“Is that the best you can do?” the Sith asked, pursuing him yet again. “I am Lord Ogathu! Master of the dark side! You are nothing!”

Again Zavahier darted around an object in his path – this time a large statue of Skotia himself – and then pushed at it with the Force, sending it falling towards Ogathu. The Sith Lord pushed back at the statue, and for a moment it hovered between them, as they each tried to use it to crush the other.

Well, no matter how this battle ended, many of Skotia’s most prized possessions would be destroyed beyond repair.

That thought amused Zavahier.

And slightly bothered him, seeing so much history destroyed for the sake of a power struggle between Sith. Him and Ogathu. Zash and Skotia.

And it distracted him just long enough for Ogathu to gain the upper hand and send the statue hurtling through the air towards him.

Zavahier dived sideways to avoid being squashed, and the statue broke into several large pieces as it hit the floor. At least _that _was no great loss. Who cared about a statue of Skotia? It was almost as hideous as the Darth himself.

After regaining his balance, he grabbed two pieces of the statue, lifting them into the air and then throwing them violently at Ogathu. The other Sith sidestepped the first, which crashed into a table behind him, and blasted the other with a bolt of lightning. A second bolt of lightning, a more powerful one, was directed towards Zavahier, and he cried out in pain when it hit him. But he fought through it, and struck back with a blast of his own lightning.

Ogathu raised his lightsabre again to absorb the lightning. But Zavahier didn’t give up. He intensified his lightning, drawing on all his rage and hate to create as powerful an explosion of lightning as he could.

More.

More!

Even more!

With a thundering _crack_, Ogathu’s lightsabre was torn out of his hand and thrown violently across the room, surrounded by purple sparks. And now that his target had no weapon to defend himself, Zavahier directed his lightning fully onto Ogathu, confident that he would now be victorious.

But Ogathu wasn’t beaten yet. Even as Zavahier’s lightning wreathed around him, the air between them crackling with sparks, the Sith Lord refused to give in. With a wave of his hand, he created a shield around himself, absorbing the full force of the lightning. He picked up one of the daggers from Skotia’s collection, and threw it, using the Force to drive it straight through Zavahier’s hastily erected shield. The coppery blade stabbed straight through his armour and embedded itself in his right shoulder.

He screamed when agony cut through his body. His shield collapsed as his concentration broke. He dropped his lightsabre, bringing his hand up to his injured shoulder, and the weapon deactivated the moment it left his hand.

Ogathu reached out with the Force and pulled Zavahier’s lightsabre to him. He studied it for a moment, his lip curling in faint contempt as though he found something lacking in the weapon, but he ignited it anyway, and stepped towards Zavahier.

Khem started forward, taking several paces towards Ogathu and clearly intending to block the Sith Lord before he reached Zavahier.

“No!” Zavahier snapped. He wasn’t beaten. And he wasn’t going to let Khem destroy Ogathu. If he couldn’t beat the Sith Lord himself, then he didn’t deserve to live. He reached up and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the dagger. It was slippery with blood, and he struggled to get a firm hold on it. Each time he tried to pull it out, his fingers slid across the hilt. He snarled, a combination of pain and frustration.

Ogathu chuckled, and held back from attacking him, apparently gaining pleasure from the waves of pain and fear radiating from Zavahier, palpable ripples of emotion in the Force.

Zavahier had to work the dagger up and down a little, widening the wound in his shoulder enough so he could tear the blade free of his flesh. He groaned in pain, a harsh sound in the back of his throat, but he refused to scream again. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to endure it. Despite his intentions, his groan became a harsher, sharper sound as he pulled the knife out, feeling its edge slicing at the edge of the wound. Once the blade was free, he let it fall to the floor.

That might not have been the best idea. Now it hurt _worse_ than it had with the knife in him, and his blood flowed more freely.

He felt light-headed, and wobbled on his feet, struggling just to remain conscious.

But he clung to the pain itself, using it to give him the strength to keep fighting. In the white-hot agony was pure power, and he reached for it. Claimed it. Focused it on Ogathu.

And felt something.

An instinct.

Something that could never be taught, but could only be learned in the moment. Sensed through the Force. Zavahier latched onto Ogathu’s presence in the Force, and drew upon it, instinctively draining the Sith Lord’s strength and pulling it into himself. He focused on the wound in his shoulder, and felt the flesh knit itself back together. Ogathu screamed, struggling against the draining of his power. Zavahier screamed too, the pain of this dark healing even _worse_ than being stabbed. But the blood streaming from the wound slowed to a trickle.

And from pain, there was power.

A blast of pure dark energy surged towards Ogathu and slammed him against the wall. He crumpled to the floor, and did not rise.

Zavahier took an involuntary step backwards, his chest heaving, and his whole body trembling with pain and exhaustion. He almost sank to the floor, but Khem stepped forward and grabbed hold of the back of his robes, holding him up. Zavahier leaned into him, grateful for the support.

“That is a bad wound,” Khem said to him.

“I know…” Zavahier said, speaking between rapid, shallow breaths. He was holding the wound closed with nothing but the Force, which was certainly impressive enough. But if his concentration lapsed for a moment… “There’s… In the bag… Kolto.”

Khem lowered him to the floor – rather than just dropping him – and then began searching in the backpack of essential supplies. He pulled out several ration bars, before locating the medpacs.

Now sitting down amongst the shards of glass covering the floor, and with his back pressed against one of the surviving cabinets, Zavahier took one of the medpacs and clumsily pulled it open. He tried to apply the kolto to his injured shoulder, but his hands were shaking so much that he couldn’t do it very well – and treating his own injury wouldn’t have been the easiest thing to do at the best of times.

Shâsot came towards him and licked at the blood that soaked his robes, only to be pushed aside so that Khem could crouch in front of Zavahier and deal with the injury himself. Shâsot growled, and swiped at Khem with one forepaw, leaving several deep scratches in the Dashade’s thigh.

“Behave, little hound,” Khem said warningly, pushing Shâsot away again.

Shâsot snarled again, but before he could lash out at Khem again, Zavahier reached out to him, brushing his fingers against the Tuk’ata’s deep blue fur.

“Come here, Shâsot,” he said quietly. “Sit next to me. Here.”

Shâsot moved to Zavahier’s left side and laid down on the floor, thrusting his head close enough for Zavahier to stroke his mane, but without getting in the way as Khem applied kolto, painkillers and bandages to Zavahier’s right shoulder. Khem was as gentle as he could be with his enormous hands, but the process was rough and painful regardless. Zavahier closed his eyes, enduring it as silently as he could, but not fighting against it. This was part of being alive. He didn’t _enjoy_ being in pain, but he accepted it as part of his existence. This wasn’t the first time he’d gotten hurt. And it would not be the last.

Once Khem was done, he took one last item from the medpac, a stim that he injected into Zavahier’s arm. Within a few moments, it spread through his body, filling him with new energy and clearing his thoughts. His trembling subsided, and once he felt fully in control of his own body again, Zavahier pulled himself to his feet. He made his way across the room, stepping over or around pieces of glass and broken relics, pausing every now and then to look for the tablet.

It was right at the back of the room, and was the only item that looked even remotely like a tablet. It was half a metre long, made of sandy brown stone, and the text inscribed on its surface was composed of jagged, spiky letters. Zavahier couldn’t read them, not with his eyes anyway, since he could read only Basic and Ancient Sith. But through the Force he could glean a little of its meaning. Definitely a religious text. Zavahier tried to pick it up, and found it was far too heavy for him. It probably would have been even if he _hadn’t_ gotten injured, but he could barely even raise his right arm, let alone hold anything.

As Zavahier studied the Trandoshan relic, a warning of approaching danger prickled at the edges of his senses. A second later, this warning was echoed in a growl from Shâsot, and Khem shifting into a combat stance. Zavahier turned around, and saw Ogathu coming towards him, Zavahier’s own lightsabre raised in preparation for an attack.

“That’s _mine_!” Zavahier snarled, and his surge of anger took form as a violent blast of lightning. Sparks shot in every direction, striking the walls, the ceiling, the floor. Some even flickered across Khem and Shâsot, but both were highly resistant to the Force. It was Ogathu who took the brunt of the storm, and he fell back, dead even before he hit the floor.

Unsatisfied, Zavahier blasted the Sith Lord’s corpse with another bolt, and then tore at him with the raw power of the Force, breaking through his armour and robes, and shattering his bones.

He would have done more, but he was reaching the extent of his strength, and was forced to stop after barely a few seconds.

Then he stepped forward and retrieved his lightsabre, holding it tightly in his hand. Just holding it. He didn’t even want to return it to his belt. It was _his_.

More than that, Ogathu had dared to try to use his lightsabre against him. While simultaneously viewing it with contempt, as though it were somehow an unworthy weapon. Hypocrite. Zavahier _liked_ his lightsabre – even if the blade _wasn’t _purple – and just felt…

Intensely protective of it.

Of all his belongings, really.

But his lightsabre was special. He had worked hard to earn it, and it marked him as Sith, no matter what anybody else said.

Another Sith – an utterly _inferior_ and very thoroughly _dead _Sith, at that – having the audacity to _touch it_, let alone try to kill him with it, was abhorrent.

Zavahier’s lightsabre did, unfortunately, look somewhat damaged. The casing was dented after being thrown around so much, and there were several scorch marks from Zavahier’s own lightning. The fang at the base of the hilt had cracked, and the very tip had gone entirely. And when he studied it, he wasn’t sure about the Force-imbued crystals inside either. Something just felt… wrong.

He glared down at Ogathu’s corpse, trying to summon a little more power to tear it to shreds, but he was not able to manage it. The desire was there, and he could feel the power within himself. But he couldn’t focus it and draw it out. He had burned through what little endurance he possessed.

“Please just _eat him_,” Zavahier snarled, not even directing that order at anybody in particular, but simply expressing frustration with himself for not being able to further desecrate Ogathu’s corpse.

Shâsot took the invitation and began devouring the dead Sith Lord, his powerful teeth tearing into Ogathu’s body with enthusiasm. Skin and muscle were ripped from bone, and Shâsot’s whole head was covered in blood as he thrust his muzzle into Ogathu’s belly, eagerly consuming the blood-rich liver. And Zavahier just stood and watched, taking an odd pleasure in the sight of his enemy’s body being torn apart and eaten. There really was something _very _satisfying about it. His hand wrapped so tightly around the hilt of his lightsabre that it hurt.

Khem, meanwhile, wrapped the Trandoshan tablet in cloth and then packed it safely in the backpack. Only once he was done did he tap Zavahier on his uninjured shoulder. “We should go, little Sith.”

Zavahier pulled his gaze away from Shâsot devouring Ogathu’s body, blinked a couple of times, and then shook his head. The stim Khem had given him had strengthened him, but he still felt rather strange. Then he looked around at the rest of the reliquary. “Can we take the rest of these relics?”

“Many are damaged,” Khem pointed out. “But we will take the undamaged ones. I have strength enough to carry them.”

Together they began to pick through the wreckage of Zavahier’s duel with Ogathu, retrieving the relics that had survived the carnage: several ancient daggers, including the one Ogathu had stabbed him with, the pair of gauntlets, two golden rings set with precious stones, a handful of crystals, and no less than five holocrons, which were apparently more durable than they looked, having survived the destruction of the table they’d been resting on. Each of the artefacts had a dark presence in the Force. He would have to study them later in order to determine their properties. For now, Zavahier simply wrapped them up and packed them in the bag alongside the Trandoshan tablet. He also claimed Ogathu’s thoroughly scorched lightsabre, though he sensed that the purple crystal that powered it was no longer functional. Once everything was safely secured, he gave the backpack to Khem to carry.

And then, finally, it was time to leave. Zavahier led the way, refusing to let neither weariness nor injury weaken him. He was Sith. He had defeated a Sith Lord, a man vastly older and more experienced than himself. Also, a lot fatter. Size wasn’t everything, apparently. He had seized some of Skotia’s most precious relics, and slaughtered all of his apprentices. He had crushed Skotia’s army, and destroyed a lot of valuable equipment. A substantial victory to take pride in.

“Does this base have a self-destruct, do you think?” Zavahier asked as they neared the exit tunnel.

“I will check,” Khem said. “Get yourself clear, little Sith.”

Zavahier almost argued, because he wanted to destroy Skotia’s whole base himself. But he also knew that he really wasn’t up to running to get out of the base before it detonated. He would let Khem have this final victory. “Agreed,” he said at last.

Khem turned and broke into a run, heading back into the base, while Zavahier continued down the tunnel. After a few steps, he felt Shâsot brush up against his side, as though the Tuk’ata were offering himself as a steady body to lean against. His shoulder only came up as high as Zavahier’s hip, but his support was helpful regardless. Zavahier put his hand on Shâsot’s back, using the Tuk’ata to keep himself upright.

“Thanks, Shâsot,” he said quietly. It was easier to say that kind of thing to Shâsot, who couldn’t answer back, than to Khem or anybody else. It helped that Shâsot never seemed to judge him, either.

They slowly made their way down the tunnel, and had almost reached the entrance at the base of the Colossus when there was a distant rumble. The earth shook, and pebbles and loose bits of soil fell from the roof of the tunnel. With a great deal of effort, Zavahier lifted his hand and raised a shield above him and Shâsot, protecting them from harm until they were clear of the tunnel. And once they were beyond it, outside under a dark, stormy sky, Zavahier turned back to face the tunnel.

Waiting for Khem.

Hoping the Dashade had not been crushed by the collapsing underground base.

The seconds felt like an eternity.

But then Khem emerged from the tunnel, covered in dust and earth, but otherwise unharmed. “The base has been destroyed.”

“Wonderful,” Zavahier replied. It was a little anti-climactic, really. A little shaking, some pebbles falling from above, and nothing more. The access tunnel itself hadn’t collapsed, only the base deep underground, and he hadn’t even had the pleasure of watching the explosion himself.

But hopefully Skotia would be really, really angry.

That would count for something, at least.

And did the Colossus itself look a little… lop-sided now?

Zavahier stared up at it, trying to determine if it was just his imagination, or if it really _was_ leaning ever so slightly to one side.

He decided that it was. That the destruction of Skotia’s base had shifted the foundations of the giant statue just enough to make it lean a little to the side. And if that wasn’t a satisfactory monument to his achievement, then he didn’t know what was. It was a shame the statue wasn’t closer to the city so he could look at it and remember his accomplishments.

The journey from the Colossus to the nearby outpost felt like a long one. The rebel slaves – those that still lived, anyway – had learned to stay as far away from Zavahier as possible, so he was able to reach the outpost without being attacked. But there was no denying that he was badly injured. He had lost a lot of blood, and the wound in his shoulder pained him, in spite of the painkillers from the medpac. The healing he had done himself, powered by strength he had drained from Ogathu, threatened to reverse itself, and Zavahier had to concentrate solely on that just to prevent the wound tearing open again. That in itself was frightening, the knowledge that the only thing standing between him and bleeding to death was his ability to focus on one single thing.

Fortunately, every time his concentration wavered, it brought a fresh stab of pain through his shoulder, bringing his thoughts back into focus.

But it was hard work. By the time he staggered into the outpost, leaning heavily on Shâsot just to stay upright, Zavahier was nearing exhaustion. Khem guided him to the medical tent, and he sat down on the nearest empty bed without waiting for permission from the medical personnel. But his arrival alone had drawn attention, and a doctor hurried over to him. Zavahier needed help to remove his armour, before the doctor gently pushed him to lie down on the bed. The spray bandages were pulled away, exposing the wound so the doctor could examine it more closely, probing it with his fingers.

“There should be more blood than this,” the doctor said.

“There was,” Zavahier replied. “I closed the wound with the Force. But I have to keep concentrating on it. So will you just _do something _already? That’s your job, isn’t it?”

“Sith, this has to be handled carefully. Otherwise I’ll just cause more damage,” the doctor said with a great deal of patience. He briefly turned away from Zavahier and waved over his assistant, as well as a pair of medical droids. They came over, bringing with them a selection of tools and equipment. The doctor turned back to Zavahier, looking him in the eye. “Now then, I’m going to need you to let go – stop holding the wound closed – so we can repair the muscle and bone properly.”

That was easier said than done. It was, in its own way, a much greater challenge than killing Ogathu had been. It required Zavahier to relax, yet when he tried to release his hold on the wound, it sent a sharp spike of pain through his whole body, and he tensed again, pulling the muscles of his shoulder even tighter together. This hurt too, and he groaned, creating further tension within himself. The instinct was to reach out and snatch at the strength of the doctor and his assistants, to draw it into himself to provide some relief from the pain. He almost did it, too, and stopped only just in time. It would probably kill them, and Zavahier wasn’t stupid enough to kill the people trying to help him.

“No. No, no, no, you’re just making it worse,” the doctor said. He injected something into Zavahier’s arm. “It’ll be alright. This will help you relax.”

Zavahier tried again, loosening his hold a little at a time, and fighting the instinct to draw on the Force to keep the wound closed. It was easier now, though; whatever the doctor had injected him with seemed to help, reversing the effects of the stim Khem had given him. His mind slowed, a kind of deep fuzziness creeping over his thoughts and disrupting his focus, until his ability to hold his wound closed was shattered completely.

It still hurt. He closed his eyes so he didn’t have to watch the doctor work, but he could still feel the man exploring the open wound.

His mind drifted further, until the sedative pulled him into unconsciousness.


	24. Distractions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier is still easily distracted.

Zavahier spent almost a week in a kolto tank at the outpost. He slept through most of it, initially the natural consequence of exhaustion and injury, and then because the doctor added further sedatives to the solution, keeping him unconscious while his wound healed properly. This was quite normal, at least for Zavahier; kolto tanks were small and claustrophobic, and he tended to become restless and anxious when held inside one for too long. Better to sleep through it, and wake up only once the outpost’s medical personnel were prepared to let him leave. During the times he was briefly awake, he was aware of Khem standing guard nearby, and of Shâsot curled up at the base of the kolto tank. That had actually helped too, knowing that even though he was being held in a defenceless position, he was protected by beings that…

Yes, beings he trusted.

Neither Khem nor Shâsot would ever allow anyone to hurt him while he recuperated.

The doctor drained the kolto tank on the morning of the sixth day. Zavahier’s shoulder was still sore, and there was a small knot of scar tissue marking the place where Ogathu had stabbed him. Such a deep wound would need much longer in a kolto tank to heal without leaving a mark. But it was hardly Zavahier’s first scar. It certainly wouldn’t be his last. At least this one was almost a badge of honour, marking his victory over Lord Ogathu. Not like the ones on his neck, created by repeated shocks from his slave collar, or the marks of the electro-whip across his back, or the tattoo of slavery on his wrist. Even the one on his chest – a training accident at the Academy – was nothing to be proud of.

And…

Well…

Such marks could be removed, but it was expensive. Zavahier couldn’t afford it. He had to live with his scars because there was no other choice.

The moment the door of the kolto tank slid open, he darted out, and pulled on the robes Khem held out to him, covering himself up and hiding all the marks he hated others knowing he had.

Zavahier left the outpost as quickly as he could, filling Marquess’ saddlebags with his collection of relics, and then climbing onto her back to begin the long journey back to Kaas City. He took it slowly, riding for half a day, stopping for a few hours, and then continuing on until nightfall. He projected his darkest emotions through the Force, using them to warn the jungle beasts away, dissuading them from trying to attack him. He did the same on the following day, and reached the city just as the sun began to set. Marquess was returned to the stables, and Shâsot was sent with Khem to Zavahier’s apartment. The Dashade took the bag of relics with him, to hide them while Zavahier took the Trandoshan tablet with him to Zash in the Citadel.

Zash was standing in front of her desk, with her back to the door, gathering together a handful of books which had apparently slid from the enormous stack of them on the desk. Almost without thinking, Zavahier moved to her side and helped to pick them up. A moment later, he mentally reprimanded himself for doing so. For behaving like a _slave_.

But she seemed pleased at his assistance, and flashed him a quick smile before moving all the books into several smaller piles. “Thank you, dear Ezerdus,” Zash said warmly. “I suppose I really should organise my desk a little better. But no matter! Did you get the tablet?”

“I did,” Zavahier said, taking the tablet from his bag, and wincing slightly as he pulled on his injured shoulder in the process. He removed the cloth wrapping, and then handed the tablet to Zash.

“Then we’ve both had success in our endeavours,” Zash said, rather cryptically as she studied the tablet with mild curiosity. “And Skotia is absolutely _fuming_ over the destruction of his base. He suspects I was involved, but there’s nothing he can do about it.”

Zavahier smiled, genuinely pleased to hear that he had successfully angered Skotia. It almost made up for the insults. “I hoped he would. And I thought destroying the whole base would conceal the _real_ reason I was there. If Skotia can’t find the tablet underneath all the rubble, he’ll assume it was destroyed rather than stolen.”

And the same applied to the other relics, too. But Zash didn’t need to know he had taken _those_.

Zash nodded appreciatively. “Very clever, apprentice. Though perhaps a little heavy-handed. If that base weren’t a secret, Skotia would use its destruction as proof that we’re up to something.”

“I know. I’m not stupid enough to blow up a base that _everyone_ knows about,” Zavahier grumbled.

Well, he might have done it just because it was amusing.

As long as it couldn’t be solidly traced back to him, of course.

“No, of course not. I know you’re not stupid,” Zash assured him. She held out the tablet for him to take back. “I want you to keep this safe. Skotia likes to visit me on occasions, to remind me that he’s watching me, and I don’t want him seeing this. But he doesn’t consider _you_ important enough to watch. His mistake.”

Zavahier took the tablet and began packing it away again. As he did so, he asked, “So what’s the next step?”

“Nothing, for the moment. I will have another task for you soon, but it’s not quite ready yet,” Zash said, before falling silent, giving him a scrutinising look. “You were injured during the retrieval of the tablet, weren’t you?”

“Lord Ogathu managed to get one lucky strike before I killed him. How could you tell?” Zavahier asked, wondering exactly how obvious it was.

Zash didn’t respond to the question, but simply reached out and gently patted him on the right shoulder. “Go and rest, dear apprentice. You’ve more than earned a break.”

Zavahier was, once again, struck with the same sense of wrongness in the moment when Zash touched him. It was so completely at odds with her kind words that he still didn’t know what to make of it. Still didn’t know how he should respond.

So he quickly covered his unease with another question. “My lightsabre was damaged in the fight. How do I go about repairing it?”

“How unfortunate,” Zash replied, and she was silent for a moment as she consulted the day-planner in her datapad. “Yes, here we go. Come and see me at eleven tomorrow morning, and I’ll show you what you need to know. I am your master, after all. It would be remiss of me not to teach you anything, wouldn’t it?”

Zavahier had actually wondered if his apprenticeship to Lord Zash would include any of specific training, like that which he had received from the instructors at the Academy, or whether he would be solely teaching himself based on guesswork and necessity. The prospect of some real training with Zash, learning directly from her knowledge and experience, was a rather exciting one, and so he smiled. “Thank you.”

“Now off you go, apprentice,” Zash said. “Get some rest, as you will need to be able to concentrate in order to repair your weapon properly.”

Zavahier nodded, and left Zash’s office. As he made his way out of the Citadel, he thought about Zash’s words. She had to know how easily Zavahier could be distracted. He had been chided for it often enough by the instructors at the Academy, after all. He had once forgotten about one of Harkun’s errands for three days, and Zavahier didn’t doubt for a moment that Harkun had complained to Zash about it. Probably at length. Yes, Zash had to know. And this was her gentle way of reminding him that she expected him to actually improve.

Zash’s concession to his needs was to arrange a mid-morning training session, since Zavahier didn’t enjoy early mornings the way she did. But in turn, she expected him to be completely awake and ready to learn.

Which seemed fair enough, really.

Though still odd. Zavahier was so accustomed to being treated poorly – first by his owner, then by Harkun, and more generally by virtually every Sith he met – that Zash being so _nice_ to him all the time was strange and difficult to understand. Perhaps even more so because she was a Sith, too. Zavahier was quite sure there was more to Zash than he was aware of. If he enjoyed her pleasantries – and he really did – it didn’t mean he actually _trusted_ her.

But it really would be nice to learn something of lightsabre construction from her.

Upon returning to his apartment, Zavahier took a long bath, washing away all the sweat and dirt of two days of travelling, and the imagined grime of all the work that had come before. There had been sonic showers at the outpost. But dealing with the rebel slaves had left him feeling rather… unclean.

Slaughtering so many of them – and especially all the faces he’d recognised – still troubled him a little. He had managed to distract himself from those thoughts as he raided Skotia’s hidden base, and the days spent in the kolto tank had dulled his emotions during the journey back to Kaas City. But now he was home, relaxing in the hot water and alone with his thoughts, there were no further distractions. He had to actually confront his feelings. All those same emotions.

No.

No.

Zavahier swatted at a small pile of bubbles, scattering them into foam. He was _not_ going to go over it again. He already knew how it felt, and how he would answer the questions such emotions inspired. He was sure of his strength now. While things hadn’t gone exactly according to plan - when did anybody plan on getting _stabbed_? - he had emerged victorious, and so he had no reason to doubt himself. The most troubling discovery from his recent adventure was how much like his father he was, and there was no denying he had a certain distaste for that particular reality.

Yet he was already a far greater being than Rawste had ever been. Zavahier’s bloodlust, his enjoyment in using his strength to crush his enemies… those things marked him as being very much like his father. But he would use them to greater purpose. He had ambitions. He had a desire to _use_ his power. More than that, he longed to learn more about it, and to understand himself better. Unlike Rawste, he was more than a bully who enjoyed the suffering of others, and he didn’t fear those who might be more powerful than him. If other Sith were stronger than him – like Skotia was – then it inspired him to improve himself.

And that meant Zavahier was _better_ than his father.

He was better than the slaves he’d killed. The ones from his past who had seen his strength and been disgusted by it.

And he was better than the Sith who had never known true suffering. The ones who had never been pushed to overcome every obstacle. The ones who had never _earned_ anything.

The water was beginning to cool down. So Zavahier climbed out of the bath, dried himself off with a fluffy towel, and then put on some clean robes. Then he wandered through his apartment, but found himself feeling curiously unsettled. He sat down in his meditation room to study the relics he’d taken from Skotia’s base, intending to learn something that would help him against Skotia himself. But the first holocron refused to respond to his power at all, and two others contained dark secrets that were, at present, a little beyond him. He didn’t know enough about alchemy to make the best use of the information they contained. The final two were historical in nature, and the power they offered was in the form of knowledge of the past. Fascinating, certainly, but a little heavier than he was in the mood for this evening.

Zavahier went back into the lounge, looking for something to do. He noticed, for the first time, that the holoterminal also gave him access to a number of HoloNet channels, and he watched a broadcast from the Imperial News Network with mild interest. Apparently a certain Lord Grathan had declared himself to be the thirteenth Dark Council member, with all the respect and power that went with it. He had laid claim to his own sphere of influence, though the details of exactly what he thought he had control over were rather vague. The report finished with the information that the Dark Council had declared war on Grathan; anybody who served him was a traitor and should be killed.

Hmmm…

Tempting.

Killing Grathan would be a wonderful challenge, and valuable practice for killing Skotia. And it would also improve his standing in the Dark Council’s eyes, and who could say how valuable _that_ might be?

But Zavahier had to admit, rather reluctantly, that he wasn’t up to fighting a war right now. His shoulder still ached, and when he tried to ignite his lightsabre, the blade flickered and sputtered, before shorting out entirely. He had other lightsabres, trophies from his victories, and he had always thought that if he had to, he could use one of them in place of his own. But now he found himself in that situation, he had to admit that he really didn’t _want_ to use any of them.

He wanted _his_ lightsabre.

So Lord Grathan and his army would have to wait, annoying though it was. Hopefully, some other Sith wouldn’t get there first.

And it hardly helped with his needs right now, either. Too tired to train or study, not quite tired enough to sleep. He wanted company, but didn’t want to talk to anyone.

And he was hungry.

That meant going upstairs.

Zavahier sighed, and made his way out of his apartment, taking the elevator to the top floor lounge. There wasn’t much chance of being able to eat in peace. There would be other apprentices up there at this time of the evening. Most of them would ignore him, of course. Others would radiate disapproval of his very existence at him, while also ostracising him. But others…

“Hey, Ez!” Caider greeted him enthusiastically as soon as Zavahier had stepped out of the elevator. He had taken to calling Zavahier ‘Ez’, claiming that ‘Ezerdus’ was too much of a mouthful. It really undermined the goal behind using that name in the first place, but Caider just laughed it off when Zavahier complained. “Just the person we need. Come here!” He gestured to the couch where he was sitting with Âyihsai and Janzem.

Zavahier approached cautiously. In front of the three apprentices was a holographic display consisting of a great many platforms, connected with ramps, ladders and bridges, and seven little figures – four blue and three red, all armed with miniature blasters – were running and jumping between them. The ‘floor’ underneath the platforms was a glowing red pool of lava. Caider, Âyihsai and Janzem each had a device in their hands, and seemed to be using them to control the holographic figures.

Curious despite himself, Zavahier asked, “What is this?”

Âyihsai gave him an odd look, somewhere between disbelief and amusement. “Have you never played Huttball?”

Zavahier shook his head. “No.”

“Oh, it’s easy. You’ll love it,” Caider said, grabbing a fourth device and pressing it into Zavahier’s hands. “It’s a hologame, where we need to get the ball there, into the other team’s base, while preventing them from getting it into _ours_.” From there he launched into a full explanation of the game’s rules – how the ball would explode if held too long, and all the various traps and hazards in the playing field – while demonstrating the controls using his own control device.

And then Caider added, almost as an afterthought, “We’re playing against a Republic team right now.”

“How is that possible?” Zavahier asked. Most Imperial communications systems were encrypted, protecting them from Republic slicers and spies, but also ensuring that contact with the Galactic Republic was difficult. Officially, that was to make it harder for defectors to find someone to defect to. But unofficially, it seemed more likely that it prevented the Republic being bombarded with threatening and insulting messages. More a matter of efficiency, as Sith snarling threats across the HoloNet wouldn’t be _acting_ on those threats.

Because Zavahier absolutely had _not_ considered sending such a threat to Satele Shan…

“It’s Huttball. The whole thing is run by the Hutts, and they don’t care who plays as long as they get their credits,” Caider explained. “Anyway, we think Player Three – that’s that blue one there – might be a Jedi, because he’s playing too well to be a regular ‘Pub.”

Zavahier considered the current scores. “And he’s beating you.”

“Only because there’s four of them, and only three of us. Loisâr _was_ on our team, but his master needed him,” Caider said defensively. “So you can take his place.”

“I don’t know…” Zavahier said doubtfully. It wasn’t that he thought he would be _bad_ at Huttball, as such. He knew he could do well at anything if he set his mind to it. The desire to succeed was all he needed. And that was what he doubted at the moment. He wasn’t sure he _wanted _to play this silly game with his fellow Sith.

“Oh, come on,” Janzem said. “You don’t want that Republic team to beat _us_, do you? How do you think the Sith will look then, if that _Jedi_ wins?”

“Shouldn’t three Sith be able to defeat one Jedi?” Zavahier asked. But the appeal to his pride – and his desire to attack Jedi – had been successful. He quickly ordered his dinner from the serving droid, sat down onto the couch next to Âyihsai, and joined the game. A fourth figure appeared at the red team’s base, and Zavahier touched the controls, moving the figure forward. He didn’t get far before one of the blue figures jumped down and attacked him, killing him before he could work out how to retaliate. There were a lot of buttons on the control device.

His figure reappeared in the red base, and Zavahier considered his options for a few seconds, before deciding on a strategy. He was Sith. He could use the Force. He could sense things before they happened. There was absolutely no reason why anyone from the Republic – even a Jedi – should be able to take him by surprise a second time.

And he would have his revenge on Player Four.

He used the controls to send his figure out of the base, and relied on his instincts to tell him what to do, rather than trying to remember all the instructions Caider had given to him. Some things were better learned by _doing_ them, rather than merely listening.

It turned out that Huttball was a good distraction from Zavahier’s other worries, and after a few more false starts – accidentally walking his figure into a pool of lava, from which Âyihsai had been required to rescue him before he died again, and then he lost a ferocious battle with one of the Republic players – Zavahier found his confidence and began playing the game with more enthusiasm. He even managed to kill Player Four three times in a row, just to exact his vengeance. It was an oddly satisfying experience, even if it was entirely vicarious, and not as enjoyable as killing a _real_ enemy.

They still lost the match. Zavahier wasn’t good enough at it to completely make up the difference in the scores – and he’d lost them a few points with his early mistakes – but they did at least lose by less of a margin than they otherwise would have.

And Zavahier was convinced that Caider was correct: Player Three on the Republic team _had_ to be a Jedi. He played very defensively, and seemed to predict the movements of the other players with far greater accuracy.

“I’m challenging them to another match. Best two out of three,” Caider said firmly.

“I know I’m new at this, but I have a suggestion,” Zavahier said during the pause while they waited to see if the Republic team would accept the challenge.

The other three Sith exchanged some looks, before Âyihsai said, “A fresh set of eyes on our strategy can’t hurt.”

“Alright, go for it, Ez,” Caider said.

“We’re absolutely sure Player Three is a Jedi, right?” Zavahier asked, and after the others had all nodded in confirmation, he added, “Well, I was thinking that a Jedi who seeks out conflict – even if it’s only a hologame – has got to be a little more… emotional than a normal Jedi, right? And he knows we’re Imperial, and he’s _probably_ guessed we’re Sith. So he’s already predisposed to hate us. Well, not hate, because he’s not allowed to, but—”

“Yeah, we know what you mean,” Caider said with a bite of impatience. “What’s your idea?”

“Why don’t we see if we can make him angry?” Zavahier asked. “We’ll focus less on controlling the ball, and more on antagonising _him_.”

Âyihsai gave an appreciative chuckle. “So he makes a mistake and loses the match. Or he comes over to the dark side. Either way, it’s a victory for us. I like it.”

“Me too. Let’s do it,” Janzem agreed.

“Alright, agreed,” Caider said. As he spoke, the holographic display lit up, confirming that the Republic team had accepted the challenge to two more matches. “Ez, focus on attacking the other players. But don’t just kill them. Humiliate them. Make them feel completely helpless to prevent you from doing whatever you want.”

“No problem,” Zavahier said, unable to resist a little smile. Caider might be rather bossy, but Zavahier didn’t mind following his suggestions when doing so was going to be entertaining.

“Hopefully, the Jedi will want to protect his friends, and come after you. And that’s where you come in, Ây. When he goes after Ez, you need to get in his way. Do whatever you have to, just prevent him from stopping Ez killing his friends,” Caider continued.

“I can do that,” Âyihsai replied smoothly. “As long as Ezerdus doesn’t fall in the lava again. That was just embarrassing. I’m not rescuing him if he does that again.”

Zavahier shifted position uncomfortably, and looked away from Âyihsai. “It was an accident. It won’t happen again.”

“Okay, good. Now Jan, we need you to watch the ball. The ‘Pubs will still be trying to score, so it’s your job to stop that from happening. Defend our base and take the ball if they get too close. Shouldn’t be too hard with Ez harassing them,” Caider said. “And I’ll help you or Ây, depending on what’s needed.”

Janzem nodded in response.

And then the game began.

For about thirty seconds or so, everything went according to plan. Zavahier focused on hounding the three weaker Republic players, following them wherever they went and attacking them. He pushed one off a ledge and into the lava underneath, and when his comrade tried to rescue him, Zavahier attacked him from behind and pushed him in as well.

As predicted, Player Three came hurtling towards him, leaping down several platforms and across the lava to defend the others. Zavahier didn’t flee, and nor did he move to attack the Jedi; he kept his focus on his own targets, trusting that Âyihsai would fulfil her role.

She did. She had seen the Jedi rushing towards Zavahier, and she moved to intercept, directing the holographic figure under her control in between Zavahier and the Jedi, and then attacking with a flamethrower. Little flickers of fire wrapped around Player Three.

And then the plan fell apart.

The other Republic players rallied around the Jedi, working together with a practiced ease; they passed the ball swiftly from one player to the next, so that Janzem could never quite catch it, and in his attempts to do so, he was blocking Âyihsai from protecting Zavahier.

“Get out of the way,” Âyihsai said irritably, and she tried to leap over Janzem.

But it was too late. The Jedi claimed the advantage and threw Zavahier off the platform and into the lava below.

“Damn it,” Zavahier swore, trying to get his little holographic figure to jump out of the lava. Despite her earlier words, Âyihsai threw down a thin rope for him. But he died before he could reach it, and he reappeared in the team’s base.

“This isn’t working,” Caider said, the frustration clear in his voice as he took over Zavahier’s role by attacking the Republic players. “Your idea isn’t working, Ez.”

“It’s not my idea that’s flawed, but the strategy _you_ devised,” Zavahier argued. He was bouncing from one platform to the next, trying to rejoin the pitched battle that was now taking place in the centre of the playing field.

“Well, see if you can do any better,” Caider replied.

“Work together,” Zavahier said. “Aggression alone isn’t enough. They’re protecting each other and working together, and so should we.”

Caider made a slightly dismissive noise, but Âyihsai nodded her agreement. “He’s right. We’re not just four people playing a game. We’re supposed to be a team.”

Zavahier quickly outlined his plan for the team to achieve victory, and they agreed to give it a try. Janzem and Caider sped off in one direction to harass Player Two, while Zavahier and Âyihsai harassed Player One; they focused on pulling those two players away from each other, breaking apart the tightly knit group.

And forcing the Jedi to choose which one to save.

That brief moment of indecision was almost palpable, a ripple in the Force that they could all sense. Zavahier and Âyihsai exchanged a grin.

The Jedi leaped towards Caider and Janzem, who immediately abandoned their attack – in accordance with Zavahier’s instructions – and sped away from him before he could engage with them. Player Four, meanwhile, had tried to do the same to Zavahier and Âyihsai, but he succeeded only in joining Player One in the lava.

Now the Jedi sprinted across the platforms towards Zavahier and Âyihsai, flanked by Player Two. Zavahier waited until the very last moment to dodge their attack, while Âyihsai charged at the Jedi as he came towards them. With the Jedi thus occupied, Zavahier attacked Player Two, snatching the ball from his grasp and immediately throwing it to Janzem.

Janzem and Caider made a run for the Republic team’s base, bouncing the ball between them as they went. By now, Players One and Four were returning to life in their base, and they quickly moved to engage Janzem and Caider, trying to reclaim the ball. But Zavahier was ready for this, and he leaped to Caider’s defence, throwing Player Four back and away, right into Janzem’s path. Janzem shot Player Four in the back.

The Jedi abandoned his duel with Âyihsai the moment he realised that Zavahier, Janzem and Caider were not only getting close to scoring, but were also successfully beating back the other players. But he didn’t reach them in time. Thoroughly protected by Zavahier and Caider, Janzem carried the ball into the other team’s base.

The whole playing field lit up with the sparkling red lights, confirming the successful score. The ball vanished and rematerialised in the centre of the arena.

And the Jedi launched an attack on Janzem.

Caider, Âyihsai and Zavahier converged on the Jedi to defend their teammate, intent on tearing him down from all sides. Zavahier overshot the Jedi and fell into the lava. But the Jedi was still outmatched, and was quickly killed by the combined power of the other three. More than that, however, the Jedi had been pulled into an attack of vengeance against Janzem.

“Alright, that was _slightly_ ruined by Ezerdus falling in the lava _again_,” Âyihsai said, though at least she sounded more amused than angry. “But it worked. Did you feel it? I’m _sure_ that Jedi got angry when we scored.”

“Yeah, me too. Absolutely brilliant! Let’s get him again!” Janzem agreed.

Zavahier considered this, and then smiled. Why not? He’d wanted something to distract him from his feelings, and this was perfect. And while he wouldn’t have said he _trusted_ these other three Sith, nor would he have called them friends… it was nice to have some company amongst equals. Particularly fellow Sith who knew very little of his past. He could talk to them without trusting them, couldn’t he? It wasn’t like _all _his interactions with other Sith had to inevitably end in violence. Nothing wrong with playing with them in a non-lethal way. After everything he’d done lately, both the things he was proud of and the things he really wasn’t, he deserved to have a little fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the lack of update last week. I run my own business, and I'm seeing Christmas-levels of sales right now, which means I'm finding it hard to find the time I need to edit chapters. I will try to continue weekly updates until the end of May, but after that I'll have to go back to fortnightly updates.


	25. Apprenticeship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier and Zash spend some quality time together.

Zavahier stayed up somewhat later than he perhaps should have, but against his initial expectations, he found that he actually enjoyed playing Huttball with the other apprentices. They won the second match by a narrow margin, and completely crushed the Republic team in the third game. But the greater victory had been the knowledge that they’d succeeded in provoking the Jedi player into acting on his emotions. And if Zavahier wasn’t very good at the game itself – falling off platforms had become a recurring theme – at least he proved his worth by getting the group to actually function as a team, rather than four Sith all running around only looking out for themselves. As a result, he had been invited to join them for future games; feeling rather flattered, Zavahier had accepted.

It actually _did_ feel rather nice to be wanted, didn’t it? To be accepted amongst his peers, rather than feeling like he was an outsider. Maybe they only tolerated him because he was useful. But Zavahier thought – or perhaps only hoped – that Âyihsai had genuinely liked his ideas.

So Zavahier had gone to bed feeling unusually good about himself and his place in Imperial society, and awoke the next morning with his mind filled with enthusiasm for his training with Zash. He ate a leisurely breakfast, and then made his way to the Citadel, arriving in Zash’s office a little before the scheduled time.

“Good morning, apprentice,” Zash greeted him with all her typical warmth. “Are you ready to learn?”

Zavahier nodded. “I am,” he said, completely unable to restrain his eagerness.

Zash chuckled, and motioned for him to follow her as she stepped out of her office – pausing to close and seal the door behind her once Zavahier had followed her out – before leading the way through the Citadel and down an elevator. Beyond was a long corridor, and Zavahier took a position walking by Zash’s side as they went down the corridor, passing the Citadel’s library and several large training rooms. Zavahier could barely contain his curiosity, peering into each room they went by and catching glimpses of other Sith training.

Finally, they reached their destination, a room close to the end of the corridor. Zash used an access card to open the door, and then stepped aside to allow Zavahier to go inside first. He went forward, and then paused at the doorway, looking inside before walking into what might be a trap.

“It’s alright, Ezerdus. There’s nothing dangerous here,” Zash said.

But despite her reassurances, Zavahier didn’t immediately enter the room. There was no feeling of danger, no warnings prickling at the edges of his senses. He hesitated only to satisfy himself, partly confirming for himself that the room was safe, and partly just to show Zash that she couldn’t control him. If he wanted to be paranoid and anxious, then he would do so, and nothing she could do would change that.

Zavahier went in when he was good and ready. Well, perhaps a few moments earlier, when his curiosity overwhelmed his caution. Because the room really was quite fascinating!

In the very centre was a large stone platform, inlaid with red and black crystal facets, and with an angular pillar on each side, rising above the table and curving slightly inwards. Each pillar had, at its top, a long metal device pointed directly at the other, with a gap of about a metre between them. Zavahier had absolutely no idea what the whole thing was supposed to be – its design was wholly strange and alien to him – but it hummed with power, a dark ripple in the Force.

Beyond it was another, much larger room, through which Zavahier could see a truly vast machine, the very top of which touched the ceiling. It looked most like the furnaces that his owner had used to produce certain components, but this one was substantially smaller, and like the table in the centre of the room, it had a distinct presence in the Force. Along both side walls were dozens of compartments, stacked higher than Zavahier would have been able to reach.

“See? You’re perfectly safe with me,” Zash said, chuckling with faint amusement at Zavahier’s stubbornly suspicious behaviour. “Now, let me take a look at your lightsabre.” She held out her hand to take Zavahier’s weapon.

He hesitated for several moments, not liking the idea of simply handing over his lightsabre, even if it was currently of little use to him. And he had to admit that he was a little embarrassed to have gotten it damaged in the first place, especially knowing that it had been Zash’s lightsabre when she was an apprentice.

How would Zash feel about him having been so careless with what had once been _her _weapon?

But there seemed to be little choice in the matter, so Zavahier removed his lightsabre from his belt and placed it in Zash’s waiting hand. She took it and turned it over several times, and then lifted it up to study the damage more closely.

“Hmmm,” she murmured thoughtfully, turning the lightsabre over one more time, before handing it back to Zavahier. “I thought it might just need a quick fix to get it working again, but it’s going to need more extensive repairs.”

“I’m sorry,” Zavahier said, the words out of his mouth before he could stop them. He regretted it immediately, and looked away from Zash, feeling somewhat disgusted by what he’d said. He instinctively felt that a Sith should never apologise for _anything_. Yet he also feared Zash’s disapproval, and couldn’t help but feel that he really _should _have taken better care of his lightsabre.

“Oh, there’s nothing to apologise for. These things happen,” Zash said, forgiving him easily. “But I hadn’t planned on teaching you advanced lightsabre construction techniques until you were a little further along in your training. This requires a degree of focus and concentration that I’m not sure you’re ready for.”

Well, if anything was going to motivate Zavahier to work hard, it was a challenge like that!

“I can do it. Just show me what to do,” he said.

“Patience, Ezerdus!” Zash said. “This has to be done properly, or you’ll make a mistake. And that will cause you no end of trouble.” She moved over to the table in the centre of the room, and beckoned Zavahier to follow her. “Now, this is a lightsabre forge. It will help you to dismantle your lightsabre safely. Just place it here, in the centre.”

Zavahier followed the instruction, setting his weapon down in the middle of the table, between the two pillars on either side.

“Now, focus on your lightsabre. Think of nothing else,” Zash said. “Feel how each component fits together, and begin to take them apart with the Force.”

Based on just that loose explanation, it didn’t sound like a particularly easy task, but Zavahier made the attempt regardless. He stood in front of the forge and closed his eyes, allowing himself to reach out with the Force. He examined his lightsabre with this part of himself, running his senses over its surface before probing the inside. He felt Zash come to stand behind him, and then felt her presence in the Force brushing against his own power, providing guidance that told him what her words could not.

Slowly, Zavahier removed the external casing of his lightsabre, and then unscrewed the blade emitter. There was a temptation to rush, to pull each component away from the others all at the same time. But Zash held him back, silently urging patience even as she helped him to remove several tiny screws, a few nuts and bolts, and then the circular casing that contained the focusing crystals.

The disassembled lightsabre hovered in the air, each component held apart from the others… right up until Zavahier opened his eyes to see his work. The pieces fell into a disorganised pile on the flat surface of the lightsabre forge.

Zash didn’t chide him for this mistake, however. She simply moved to stand next to him, looking over the components herself. “Ah, yes. Do you see what’s wrong?”

Zavahier looked down at the jumbled mess of lightsabre components, trying to make sense of them. To his surprise, he actually found that he _could_ sense where the problem lay. “The casing here is dented, but that’s superficial, isn’t it? The same with the chipped fang. But…” he paused for a moment, thinking it over. There were some similarities between this and the tools he used to make in Rawste’s factory. “This wire is burned out, which… um… I think that means there’s a disruption in the power flow, right?”

“Very good, apprentice,” Zash said with a smile. “And what does that result in?”

“Not enough power is getting from the main power cell into the magnetic stabiliser, so the blade keeps shorting out,” Zavahier said. Then he reached out and picked up the primary focusing crystal. “This is a problem too. There’s a crack running through the middle. I can’t see it, but I can feel it… here.” He ran his fingers along the outside of the crystal, sensing the damage in its centre quite clearly, even if he couldn’t make it out with his eyes.

“Right. And if you’ll see here, the other crystals have smaller cracks as well, and there is some damage to the insulator ring as well,” Zash said, showing him the places where each component had taken damage. “That must have been quite some fight you were in!”

Zavahier smiled slightly at the memory of it. “Lord Ogathu underestimated my power. He didn’t live to regret it,” he said. He wasn’t quite willing to tell Zash exactly how close to defeat he had come. The only thing that really mattered was the fact that he’d won.

“He’s certainly not the first Sith to underestimate you. I doubt he’ll be the last,” Zash agreed. “But for that, you will need a working weapon. These pieces are easily replaced.” She moved the burned out wire, dented casing, and damaged insulator ring away from the other components, setting them aside so they wouldn’t get mixed up with the working parts. “All the parts are in storage in those cabinets. Most of them are identical, mass-produced. But there are tiny differences between them. Concentrate on them, and find the ones that are right for you.”

Zavahier went to the closest of the compartments Zash had pointed to, and found within it a large number of insulator rings. As she had said, they all _looked_ identical, and if she hadn’t told him to do otherwise, he would simply have grabbed the first one. But instead he focused on them, and while there was no actual connection to the Force in these components, he was able to sense the ways in which each was unique, despite those surface similarities. Some were just a tiny bit larger or smaller, thicker or thinner. What had seemed like a simple task stretched out into several long minutes as Zavahier tried to work out which one he felt most drawn to.

And then, at last, he found the right one. It was a little thicker than the others, the difference so small that it wasn’t even visible with the naked eye, but he could _feel_ it. And his instincts told him that it would help to protect his lightsabre from his own lightning, an absolute necessity for future battles.

Choosing the other replacement components was a similar process, meditating on the entire drawer full of pieces until he found the right one. This took several minutes for each one, until he got to the much larger cabinet containing materials for the external casing, which held so many different options that Zavahier just didn’t know which to pick. There were different kinds of metal, some silver or gold or bronze, some shiny and others matte, and so many different shapes and sizes.

But Zash was incredibly patient, watching silently but without judgement as Zavahier considered his options. He reached out and brushed his fingers against some of the metal casings, exploring the tactile sensation as well as what he could perceive through the Force.

It was, perhaps, the longest and most considered decision he’d ever made.

He almost had to laugh at that.

How complicated could it possibly be, selecting a new casing for his lightsabre?

It wasn’t like anybody would really look at it or notice.

And given the mass-produced nature of all these components, whatever he chose wouldn’t stand out as anything particularly special. The lightsabre’s uniqueness came from the combination of components, and their connection to the one who wielded it.

So, really, he was thinking about it wrong, if he only considered how it would look to everyone else.

It was his own connection to the Force – as well as his own aesthetic tastes – that really mattered here.

Zavahier’s eye was repeatedly drawn to a casing made of agrinium. It had a pleasant silvery sheen, while promising a sturdy but lightweight covering for his lightsabre, with some inherent resistance to radiation and lightning damage. And it just _felt_ right.

He took all the components he’d selected over to the lightsabre forge and set them down.

“Good work, apprentice,” Zash praised him. “Now comes the most difficult part. We will need to create new focusing crystals before you can reassemble your lightsabre, and that process will take several days. Perhaps a week.”

“It’s the crystals that determine the colour of the blade, isn’t it?” Zavahier asked.

“My, my, you _are_ becoming vain, aren’t you?” Zash said, thoroughly amused.

“It’s not like that,” Zavahier said, feeling a little offended. “I’m not that shallow. I just never realised that there was a choice, until I saw Ogathu had a _purple_ lightsabre.”

“Ah, of course. Your lightning,” Zash said, nodding as she understood that it was that one specific colour that Zavahier was drawn to. “You’re quite proud of that, aren’t you? Being a little different?”

Zavahier couldn’t resist a smile. “Maybe a little,” he admitted. “In the Academy, when Harkun and Ffon—well, it was nice to have that one thing that proved I wasn’t just… just some slave.”

“Oh, you’re much more than that, Ezerdus. Don’t let anybody convince you otherwise. All those Sith who look down on slaves put far too much stock in a person’s bloodlines, and not enough in their power and ability,” Zash said. “It’s their loss, of course. I’d take you over a thousand high-born apprentices.”

Compliments always made Zavahier feel a little awkward, and having so many of them piled on him so quickly was especially so. Yet he couldn’t really complain that Zash was _too nice_ a master. It was certainly better than being owned by Rawste, or bullied and belittled by Harkun. He just didn’t really know how to respond to such praise without making the whole situation even more awkward. What was he supposed to say? That Zash was the best master he’d ever had?

He couldn’t make those words come out of his mouth.

Especially the word ‘master’.

Zash didn’t own him. He knew that in this context, Zash being his master meant she was his teacher, not his owner. She didn’t control him. She would _never_ control him. But where other apprentices were comfortable calling the one they served ‘master’, Zavahier never would be. He didn’t even like to think of it as service.

“I like working with you,” Zavahier settled on. “It feels like the things I do actually _matter_. That it makes a difference.”

“That’s good to hear. We’ll do great things together, I’m sure of it,” Zash said, positively beaming at him for this clumsy attempt at a compliment. Apparently it was the effort that counted. She wanted Zavahier to like her, probably even more than he desired _her _approval.

“Why do Sith take apprentices?” Zavahier asked as the question occurred to him. Everything he had learned during his training and his time on Dromund Kaas told him that Sith were predominantly solitary beings who didn’t like to share their power or knowledge. He couldn’t imagine ever being in Zash’s position, willingly sharing what he had learned with another Sith.

“There are a lot of reasons, but mostly it’s a matter of power and prestige,” Zash replied. “A Sith with an apprentice is stronger than one without, and much of a Sith’s standing in society is determined by the size and strength of their powerbase. And sometimes there are goals that can’t be reached alone; like killing Skotia, or retrieving Tulak Hord’s artefacts.”

“But working together doesn’t require an apprentice, does it?” Zavahier asked. He picked up one of the pieces of his dismantled lightsabre and began fiddling with it, turning it over and over in his hands. “Karroh and I killed a mutant Tuk’ata together, and shared the reward equally.”

Zash gave him a rather knowing look. “And do you know how rare that is? Any other pair of Sith would have fought to the death over the chance to take the whole reward for themselves.”

Zavahier had to concede that she was right about that. The reward for killing the mutant Tuk’ata had been given solely to Zavahier; Lord Renning had fully expected him and Karroh to squabble over how it should be divided. But Zavahier had chosen to give half of it to Karroh, simply because Karroh had done half the work. That was fair.

But being Sith wasn’t about being fair, was it? Zash had said that herself.

And he couldn’t help but think of the previous evening, when he and the other three apprentices had been much more effective when they’d worked together.

“_Should_ Karroh and I have fought over those credits?” Zavahier asked. In so many ways, he was still learning what it meant to be Sith. To be free. And confiding in anyone just felt wrong. Yet here he was, training with Zash, and that had helped him to realise that if he _did _have questions, then his teacher really was the right person to ask. It didn’t mean he trusted her. It certainly didn’t mean he would tell her everything. But their relationship wasn’t wholly about him pursuing artefacts or killing enemies that she was unable to deal with herself. The fact that Zash was here with him now, helping him to repair his lightsabre, was proof that she felt an obligation to teach him.

“Not if you didn’t want to. There’s nothing in the Sith Code that says you _must_ argue with other Sith, though it does seem to come naturally to many. Including you, I’ve noticed. But being Sith doesn’t mean you have to be alone all the time. I have plenty of friends, and I do hope you’re making some too,” Zash said.

“I am,” Zavahier assured her, knowing that it was what she wanted to hear. And it was, broadly speaking, the truth. He was starting to consider Caider, Âyihsai and Janzem to be friends, now that he felt he’d found his place amongst them.

“Good. I wouldn’t want you to feel isolated just because of your humble background,” Zash said.

“Oh, I feel that anyway,” Zavahier said. “Making a few friends won’t change that.”

“Give it time, apprentice. One of the reasons I brought you to Dromund Kaas was so you could find your feet,” Zash said. She reached out and squeezed his shoulder gently. “Now then, let’s see about your purple crystals, shall we? Making your own focusing crystals is a sign of great mastery over the Force. Usually, I would make them for you, as it’s not typically something an apprentice could do. But I have faith in your abilities.”

Zavahier recognised that statement for what it was; Zash knew that he still had doubts about his position as a Sith, and she sought to boost his confidence. It worked, too. Just being told that Zash thought he was ready to try something that most other apprentices wouldn’t have been capable of made him _want_ to succeed. “So how do I make these crystals?”

“Here,” Zash said, motioning for him to follow her into the next room, before approaching the massive furnace. “This is a geological compressor. It mimics the natural conditions in which crystals are formed, achieving in a few days what takes millions of years to do naturally. The Jedi prefer to use naturally formed crystals. I’m sure you can see the folly in that.”

Zavahier nodded slowly. “It means they have to wander around the vastness of space looking for the right crystal. That makes them vulnerable, because if they can’t find a suitable crystal, then they have no weapon. And…” he paused for a moment, considering the matter fully. “A naturally formed crystal is what it is, so a Jedi must make do with the closest match he can find. But if I make my own crystal, then I can imbue it with some of my own power, can’t I? Like the crystal in my amulet, but with an even stronger connection, because my power will be part of the crystal’s formation.”

“Exactly. The crystal will be a part of you, and be more powerful as a result,” Zash said. “This means that I won’t be able to help you with the creation. You must take the raw materials and bake them in the furnace, during which you must meditate on the crystals as they form. Fill them with your power and passion, and guide their formation.”

That certainly _sounded_ simple enough, but in practice… perhaps not. Both Zavahier and Zash knew that he wasn’t very good at remaining focused on a single task for long, and therefore, that meditating on his crystals as they formed over several days was likely to be a significant challenge for him. But that was perhaps the point. Zash was giving him a chance to overcome that weakness… or to admit that he needed her to make the crystals for him.

And he didn’t want to do that. He wanted to make them himself, and they would gloriously purple!

“How will I know if I’ve done it right?” Zavahier asked.

“You’ll be able to feel it. Only once they’re made will you know if the crystals are safe to use,” Zash said cryptically. But perhaps there was no other answer. “Oh yes, that reminds me. This will give you some guidance on the correct balance of raw materials. And the materials you need are in the other room, on the left hand side.”

Zavahier looked down at the datapad Zash handed to him. He thought she probably _could_ have told him the composition herself, instructing him in the relative quantities of each. But she really did want him to try to do this all by himself. It was up to him to succeed or fail purely based on his own efforts and merit.

Now _that_ was Sith training, wasn’t it?

No matter how nice Zash might be, no matter how much she aimed to be as much a friend to him as a master, she still expected him to work for his accomplishments. She guided his training and answered his questions, while still requiring him to learn through _doing_ things. And, actually, he was fine with that. He would learn more this way.

“I’ve reserved these rooms for you to use for a week, so you don’t need to worry about being interrupted. Once you’ve made your crystals, you can reassemble your lightsabre, and then I’ll take a look at it to ensure it’s been done correctly,” Zash said. She patted him once more on the shoulder, and then headed out of the room.

Left alone with all the equipment and materials he needed to make his crystals and complete the repairs to his lightsabre, Zavahier sat down on the floor to read the datapad Zash had given him, his back leaning against the side of the geological compressor. There were a lot of complex, unfamiliar words that he struggled to understand; long names for various substances and processes, interspersed with explanations that were only barely more comprehensible than the names. He had to use exactly the right combination of raw materials, and roast them at the right temperature for the right length of time, so that they formed into the right shape and size. Variations in the composition would produce different colours, directed further by using the Force.

It really was _very_ complicated.

At first he had doubted that he would _need_ a whole week to get usable crystals. But now that he studied the information Zash had provided him with, he realised that he might need to make several attempts before he got crystals that were good enough to use.

Zavahier got to his feet and went to the cabinets containing the various substances he needed. He opened one drawer and used it to prop the datapad in an upright position, allowing him to refer to it as he gathered the ingredients. Most of them were powdered mineral ores with a gritty texture; though currently the main ingredients were a smoky grey in colour, the instructions reassured him that they would turn red during the baking process.

The datapad also warned him that obtaining the desired purple colouration was more complicated than simply adding an extra ingredient. He should substitute silicon for iron, and then expose the crystal to the right amount of radiation. It would also need to be baked at a lower temperature, because too much heat would turn it yellow, which was precisely the _opposite_ of what he wanted.

As complicated as it was, Zavahier nevertheless had to appreciate the fact that creating a lightsabre crystal was something of an art. If any one of the ingredients were wrong, or the temperature and pressure of the geological compressor were set incorrectly, the crystal would be useless. If he did his work properly, he would gain a crystal of vastly superior quality to anything a Jedi could find in some dark cave in the wilderness.

So he was careful. He measured out each of the raw minerals in turn, and then mixed them thoroughly. He then split the mixture into four equal piles, placing them inside individual pressure boxes. These were set into the furnace, which he then lit, and closed the door, sealing them inside. It would take a few hours for the temperature to rise to the right level, and Zavahier would need to monitor the internal pressure of the geological compressor too.

He kneeled on the floor in front of the furnace, and closed his eyes, beginning to meditate.

Feel the Force.

Really _feel_ it.

The power was within him, a part of his very being, and it was focused through his emotions. Those passions were easy to draw on. He’d been practising that since his first days at the Academy, and now it was second nature. But now he focused on them, because he needed them to be part of the crystals.

Here was his anger, a part of him that was raw and savage.

It gave him the strength to keep fighting, no matter how unfavourable the odds. It was rage that had earned him his freedom. Without it, he would still be a slave. And with every insult, every sneer of contempt, every betrayal… every spaceport built in a stupid location, Zavahier’s fury grew.

His temper was something even other Sith feared. The other acolytes at the Academy had been afraid of him.

Fear had power too.

It warned him when he was in danger, whether it was an ambush from the shadows or that moment when he stepped across an invisible line and incurred the wrath of an enemy. He hadn’t always listened to his fear. Antagonising his betters – if the likes of Rawste and Harkun could be described as such – had always been too much fun to make him pay attention to the fear of punishment. A more persistent fear was the worry that he would never truly be accepted within the Empire. Knowing that he didn’t belong was a constant source of anxiety.

But feeling fear, acknowledging its presence, did not mean being a slave to it.

Zavahier hated that word.

‘Slave’.

It was dehumanising. It stripped away everything that he was and made him nothing more than property. A tool to be used, exploited and then discarded. He had hated being a slave, and he still hated being seen as one. And though he was dead, Zavahier still loathed his owner too. His father. The man who had abused and mistreated him. The man whose legacy was a Sith for a son, who shared his face and his willingness to do whatever was necessary. A part of Zavahier hated himself, too, in those moments when he let himself think about everything he had become.

Everything he had done.

Oh yes, there was guilt there, wasn’t there?

The faces of people that he’d killed. Some of them had names – Rawste, Balek, Wydr, Kegus, Yungif, and so many others – but still more did not. Some faces he barely even remembered. People that had been in his way, so he’d cut them down or blasted them with lightning, without ever really seeing them at all. And all of those deaths had been necessary.

Enjoyable, even.

And Zavahier even felt guilty about feeling guilty, because as a Sith he wasn’t supposed to care about the people that died on his path to power. But that was a part of him too, so he sent it into the crystals along with the rest of his darkest passions.

Yet there was more to him than negative emotions, and if these crystals were to be fully attuned to his power, they needed to reflect more than his rage, fear, hate and guilt.

After all, Zavahier would not be who he was without his curiosity, that unrelenting desire to know more about the galaxy in which he lived, to question everything, even when he didn’t like the answers. His thirst for knowledge drove him to exceed the limits placed on him by his origins as a slave. He wasn’t content to be uneducated, not when being Sith meant being part of a way of life that had existed for thousands of years, a unique and fascinating culture and history.

Here was his love of adventure, and that feeling that he was only _truly_ alive when he was challenging himself to grow stronger. There was also his loyalty, difficult to define but still very much a part of him; an understanding that he owed something to the Empire, and that if he wanted to rule it one day, he had to think about more than just himself.

Zavahier’s crystals would hold all of these emotions, both the negative and the positive. So he dwelled on them, turning them over in his mind as he fed them into the geological compressor. And he also held onto the desire for the colour purple. It was _his _colour. It shone in his lightning, and there were subtle undertones of deep purple in his blasts of dark energy. Even now, as he delved deeply into the Force, the energy that swirled around him was a rich, deep purple.

The furnace was growing hotter, so much so that Zavahier could _feel_ the heat emanating from it. He paused in his meditation to raise a bubble of Force power around him, giving him a little protection from the heat. He would have to endure this for hours, perhaps days.

But he sensed that surviving the heat of the furnace was part of the process. It was a challenge. A test of his endurance.

No, that wasn’t right.

It was a ritual.

Aside from the physical trial, there was something inherently _spiritual_ about filling the crystals with his deepest emotions. It was an act of sorcery. Zavahier felt that instinctively. Each feeling was acknowledged, examined, and accepted. Some were more comfortable than others, but the point was that as long as he felt _something_, then he would always be powerful. Being Sith wasn’t always going to be easy. Part of drawing strength from his emotions was knowing that those emotions wouldn’t always feel _pleasant_. Rage could be exhausting. Fear could make it hard to stay true to himself. Guilt could make him hate himself.

But as long as he didn’t allow his emotions to rule him, to control him, then _feeling_ them would never prevent him from getting everything he wanted. Guilt wouldn’t hold him back from killing those who got in his way. Fear wouldn’t prevent him from seeking challenges. Exhaustion would never temper his fury.

There was an old Sith proverb, wasn’t there?

‘We take what we desire because we can. We can because we have power. We have power because we are Sith.’

Zavahier was Sith. Whatever doubts he might have, he was still sure of his power, and of the strength of his passions. And he knew without a doubt that he could do anything he set his mind to.

That knowledge was imbued into the crystals as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of the weekly updates, so the next chapter will be posted on 12th June, and then fortnightly after that.


	26. Hard Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The best Sith learn from their mistakes as much as their victories.

The full week’s access to the geological compressor and the lightsabre forge proved to be essential for Zavahier. He didn’t like to admit it, but Zash’s concerns about his ability to stay focused on his task were valid. His first batch of crystals were ready after thirty hours of baking in the furnace, and they came out cracked, lopsided and a deep red in colour. The second batch of crystals took a little longer to make, as Zavahier adjusted the ratio of raw materials and lowered the temperature of the geological compressor, and after two days of deep meditation, he had one crystal that was usable, but still more red than purple, and the others formed at the same time were useless.

So he tried once again. On this third attempt, he kept the raw materials the same, except he added a little powdered titanium to the mixture in the hopes of pushing the colour more towards purple. He lowered the temperature further, but increased the internal pressure to help ensure the crystals still formed properly. He lengthened the whole process still further, meditating on the crystals over a longer period of time, but in shorter bursts. He allowed himself short breaks, during which his attention wandered; it ensured that when he was actually pouring his emotions into the crystals, he did so without getting distracted.

And through it all he neither ate nor slept. Zavahier sustained himself with the Force, using it to protect himself from the blazing heat of the furnace, as well as to keep himself awake and strong enough to keep working. He had gone lengths of time without food before, and he had always survived. Now, though, it wasn’t a punishment or a means of making him suffer, but rather something he endured willingly, as part of the ritual.

This third batch of crystals took longer than the other two combined. But they were _better_. There were no cracks or imperfections, save perhaps being smaller and more compressed than he had intended. And if the addition of titanium had made them more blue than purple, at least they weren’t _red_. But most importantly, once they had cooled enough to be safe to handle, Zavahier could _feel_ their connection to the Force… and to him. These crystals were completely and undeniably bound to him. Their power resonated with his own.

Feeling very pleased with the results, Zavahier took the four crystals over to the lightsabre forge, and began his meditation once again, trusting in his instincts to tell him which of the crystals he had made was best suited to form the central component of his weapon.

It was the smallest one, an oddly compressed crystal that was long and thin in its shape, and deep indigo in colour. Not a perfect crystal by any means, and certainly not what he’d initially had in mind when he started. But it was the one he felt most drawn to, the one that he possessed the strongest connection to. It wasn’t perfect, but neither was he. And that made it oddly fitting.

Zavahier focused on the crystal, lifting it into position above the lightsabre forge, and then bringing the other components in around it. This, too, was an instinctive process as he used the Force to guide the reassembly of his weapon. New and old components were brought together and carefully aligned with each other. The primary crystal was placed into its housing in the centre of the lightsabre, with two more focusing crystals set alongside it. Wires connected the power cell to the crystal chamber, and from the crystal chamber to the blade emitter. Each of the insulation rings were added next, and then, finally, the silvery agrinium casing was slid over the top of the lightsabre, and attached to the hand grip that wrapped around the bottom.

Once he was done, he lifted his completed lightsabre in his hand, and took a moment to simply appreciate his creation. It was a little lighter than it had been before, and the balance felt different. Better, though. When it had been Zash’s old lightsabre, it had worked well for him simply due to their shared connection to the dark side. But now…

Oh, he could feel the difference.

It was truly _his_ now.

There was just one final adjustment to be made. Zavahier removed the chipped and broken fang from the bottom of the hilt, and set one of his reject crystals in its place. The result was visually pleasing, and incredibly satisfying just because it was a customisation he had chosen for himself.

But the question remained: had he done this correctly?

He almost activated it then and there just to see if it worked. But as his thumb slid up to the activation button, he hesitated. While he couldn’t sense any flaws in his lightsabre – beyond the ones he already knew were present in the crystals, of course – if he _had_ made a mistake, the whole thing could explode in his hand. And he’d seen what that could do to a person.

So he restrained the impulse to start testing his lightsabre immediately. After gathering up the crystals he had rejected – because even though they would never be usable, the amount of effort he had put into creating them made him reluctant to simply throw them away – Zavahier left the lightsabre forge. He made his way to Zash’s office, and only once he reached the door did he pause to check the time.

No, it was fine. Oh six hundred. Obscenely early for him, but he knew Zash would be alert and awake.

Zavahier knocked on the closed door. At first there was no response, but he only had to wait for a few moments before Zash opened it.

A smile spread across her face when she saw him. “Good morning, apprentice. Please, come on in,” she said, motioning for Zavahier to enter her office. “You look exhausted. Have some caf.”

Zavahier accepted the mug of caf Zash poured for him. After a week in proximity to a hot furnace, sustaining himself through the Force, a drink – even a hot one – was more than welcome, and he took several eager mouthfuls. His heard his stomach growl, and it was loud enough that it made Zash chuckle in amusement.

“You really did it properly, didn’t you? The whole process. Did you get the crystal you were hoping for?” she asked.

“I think so. It’s not really purple, but… it feels like the right one,” Zavahier replied. He couldn’t really describe the instinctive attraction he had felt towards the crystal he had used. But he didn’t need to; just saying what he felt was enough for Zash to nod in understanding.

“That sounds promising. Show me,” Zash said.

Zavahier set down his mug on Zash’s desk and pulled his lightsabre from his belt. He held it out to Zash, but she didn’t take it from him. Instead, she examined it closely for several moments, and ran her fingers along its length. When her finger passed over the part of the hilt closest to the crystal, there was a minute shiver, and she pulled her hand back.

Now wasn’t that interesting?

The crystal that was so closely bonded to Zavahier made Zash slightly uneasy. She hid it well, and she said nothing, but that tiny tremble had betrayed her true feelings.

But it wasn’t terribly surprising. Zavahier felt unsettled when Zash touched him, so it made sense that the feeling would be reciprocated. It probably didn’t mean anything sinister, though; they were different people, with different relationships with the Force.

“This is excellent work, Ezerdus. You’ve aligned all the components perfectly. The only flaws I can detect are in the focusing crystals… Those were the best ones you made?” Zash asked, looking up from the lightsabre and gazing into Zavahier’s eyes.

“They’re still safe to use, aren’t they?” Zavahier asked.

“Of course. You’ll just have a thinner blade, which isn’t especially desirable,” Zash replied.

Zavahier activated his lightsabre, and indeed, the blade was considerably thinner than it had been before, and a few centimetres longer as well. Small fluctuations of energy ran along the length of the blade, another indication that he had failed to reproduce the natural conditions needed to form a perfect lightsabre crystal. Yet he found the effect rather pleasing.

As Zash had commented on before, Zavahier gained some measure of pride in being different. His lightsabre wasn’t perfect, but it suited him.

However, there was also absolutely no getting away from the fact that it was _blue_.

Well, kind of. It was more blue than purple, and definitely _not_ the bright shade of violet he had been hoping for, and so he was inclined to be disappointed with this colder colour that hovered somewhere between purple and blue. At least it couldn’t be mistaken for a Jedi’s weapon. This was still the lightsabre of a Sith, albeit an unusual one.

He could live with it. Especially since it otherwise felt completely perfect for him.

“Can we spar a little? I want to get a feel for how it handles in battle,” Zavahier asked.

“Of course, apprentice. I’ve been meaning to test your skills with a lightsabre. Overseer Rance was always quite critical of your duelling ability, but I’d really like to see for myself,” Zash said.

“I like to think I’ve improved since leaving Korriban,” Zavahier said.

“Good. I’d be worried if you hadn’t. Training at the Academy is only the beginning,” Zash said as she led Zavahier away from her desk and into an area of empty space in the middle of her office. She took her lightsabre from her belt and spent a moment adjusting the settings so that the blade was no longer lethal.

An odd decision, and not one Zavahier would have expected from a Sith.

Zash sensed his surprise, and smiled at him. “Some Sith like to threaten their apprentices with death in the event of failure, even in training sessions. I would much rather you live to learn from your mistakes.” She activated her lightsabre, and the blade was purple. Properly purple, not the strangely blue-purple hue that currently shone from Zavahier’s blade.

“You’re assuming that I’m going to lose,” Zavahier commented as he adjusted the power of his own weapon – he still needed Zash alive, after all – and then he stalked towards her, his lightsabre held loosely by his side. Before he reached Zash, however, he moved to the side, circling her before attacking, trying to get a measure of her abilities.

She watched him with mild curiosity, turning in place so that he was always in front of her, but she didn’t move to attack him either. Zash was waiting to see what he did. Waiting for him to attack her first.

Alright, then.

Zavahier waited a second more, and then darted swiftly to the side, trying to get a little ahead of Zash’s movements, before lunging right at her with a quick, light stab of his lightsabre. One thing was immediately obvious to him: the changes he’d made to his weapon made it easier to wield and control. He aimed for Zash’s stomach, and had no trouble getting the lightsabre to do what he wanted.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough. Zash moved lightly to the side and deflected his attack with her broader, more powerful blade. “Reckless, Ezerdus. Far too reckless,” she chided him.

So he tried again, pushing himself to be even quicker in the hopes of getting through Zash’s defences. She slashed at him with her lightsabre, and he parried it with his.

Oh, and feel _that_!

This narrow, pulsating blade was so precise. He had sacrificed raw power for greater accuracy and control.

Not a choice that many Sith would have made.

But he liked it. It suited his fighting style perfectly.

Emboldened and filled with new confidence, Zavahier danced around Zash, making swift, poking jabs with his lightsabre. The instinct was to draw on his other powers too, but he resisted. The point of this sparring session was to practice with his newly repaired lightsabre, not destroy Zash’s office with blasts of lightning and attempts to crush her with her own furniture. Instead he focused solely on those quick, elegant movements he had learned, enjoying the fact that they came more easily to him now.

“Your footwork is good,” Zash said appraisingly, before lunging at him in an aggressive charge. She swung her lightsabre at him, forcing him to back away. She wasn’t holding back, either; her lightsabre wouldn’t kill him, so there was no reason for her to restrain herself.

Zavahier dodged her slash, and then feinted to the right, before actually moving to the left. He aimed a light cut at Zash’s outstretched arm.

But she anticipated the attack, blocking it with her lightsabre. Both blades connected, and Zash pushed forward. While physically they were of similar size – with Zavahier having just a few centimetres on Zash in height – Zash’s two-handed attack had more power. Zavahier struggled against it for a brief moment, and then pulled his lightsabre away. He tried to widen the distance between him and Zash, but couldn’t quite get clear before she brought her lightsabre blade down on his arm.

In a real battle, that would have severed his arm and relieved him of his lightsabre all in one move. As it was, the attack was painful enough that Zavahier dropped his weapon, and Zash seized her advantage, slashing him repeatedly across the chest and shoulders. Her final move was to bring her lightsabre against his throat.

“And now you’re dead,” Zash told him. She deactivated her lightsabre and returned it to her belt, before stooping to retrieve Zavahier’s weapon, which she held out for him to take. “Do you know what you did wrong?”

Zavahier took his lightsabre from Zash. He thought he’d been doing well, up until the moment when Zash had not been fooled by his feint. Yet now he had bruises and mild burns on his arms, shoulders and chest. If Zash had been aiming to kill him, then he would be dead. “You predicted my feint. I gave myself away somehow.”

“Yes, the way you shifted your balance to prepare for the change in direction told me what you were planning to do. Keep your feet a little further apart, and use your offhand to help balance your stance,” Zash said. “But that wasn’t your first mistake.”

“Then what was?” Zavahier asked.

“You haven’t eaten or slept in a week. I can’t fault your enthusiasm, but you weren’t prepared to fight against someone who’s fully rested,” Zash said. “What possessed you to challenge me?”

“I suppose I was just excited to try my lightsabre. It feels different,” Zavahier said. He really _did_ recognise his mistake in asking Zash to spar with him after such an intense and draining ritual. And he realised that Zash had _agreed_ to the sparring match solely to teach him the consequences of such an impulsive decision. She had known he would lose.

Zash went back to her desk and sat down, and she gestured for Zavahier to take the seat in front of her desk. “Sit down and rest a moment. I’ll order us some breakfast. I think you could do with a solid meal.” She tapped a few commands into her computer, initiating a brief holocall to the _Nexus Room_ cantina.

“I’m used to being hungry,” Zavahier said as settled himself on the chair, wanting to sit back and relax – or failing that, to just _leave_ – but unable to do so. His body felt rather battered; the pain wasn’t agonising, but it was enough to make him uncomfortable. It was the first time Zash had ever physically hurt him, and even though he knew he’d brought it on himself, he nevertheless felt a little… abused. She hadn’t just won the sparring match, but she’d deliberately slashed at him _after_ disarming him.

She had hurt him to make a point.

And now she was smiling at him, all friendship and happiness again.

“You’ve come such a long way, Ezerdus. I’m really proud of the progress you’ve made,” Zash said. “We’ll have to spar a little more – once you’re ready – so we can improve on your lightsabre technique. And how are your other skills coming along?”

“Alright, I suppose,” Zavahier replied evasively. It wasn’t just that he didn’t know how to rate his own progress, but also that he didn’t like Zash knowing anything about the limits of his power. And yet… there were things about his powers that he didn’t understand, and that was precisely why he still needed Zash, to teach him the things he couldn’t learn on his own. He didn’t like it much. It was his instinct to keep secrets. But he needed to know. “During the duel with Ogathu, something happened. I did something new.”

“What did you do?” Zash asked, leaning forward to study him with open curiosity.

“It was after he stabbed me,” Zavahier said, raising his hand to rub his right shoulder, which still ached whenever he moved it. “I got the knife out, and… I used Ogathu’s strength to close the wound.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Zash said with great enthusiasm.

“I don’t really know how I did it. It’s not like anything I learned at the Academy,” Zavahier said uncertainly, not really sure how he would define what he’d done.

But Zash knew the answer. Now positively beaming at him with delight, she said, “It wouldn’t be. Draining an enemy in order to strengthen yourself – or someone else – is an innate skill. There are no words or incantations. It’s truly _delightful_ that you have an aptitude for it. We’ll have to find a way for you to practice it further.”

“I’d like that,” Zavahier said, giving Zash a small smile. He hadn’t forgotten the sparring match. Not at all. But he still liked the prospect of learning more. Of undergoing further training with Zash. “It… The healing it provided was temporary. And it hurt more than the wound. But it kept me alive long enough to get to a kolto tank. I’d like to learn how to heal myself _properly_.”

“You dislike kolto tanks, don’t you?” Zash asked.

He didn’t ask how she knew that. He’d spent enough time in the Academy’s medical bay – and been sedated by doctors often enough – for Zash to have learned of his distaste for kolto tanks. So he just said, “They make me feel trapped. I’d rather rely on my own powers.”

Zash didn’t immediately respond. A protocol droid entered her office with two trays of food, a delivery from the cantina, and Zash was careful to say nothing in front of the droid. Only after it had deposited the trays on her desk and then shuffled out of the office did Zash speak again. “I appreciate an apprentice that’s eager to learn. So many Sith treat it like a chore that gets in the way of fighting. But you must realise that healing with the Force is incredibly difficult, and it can’t do everything. There are times when you will need to rely on others,” Zash told him, and she pushed one of the trays towards him. “Like now. Eat up. You need to restore your strength.”

Responding to his ravenous hunger, Zavahier tore into his meal, taking eager mouthfuls as quickly as possible, barely even tasting it… and realising only a moment later that he hadn’t thought to check the food for poisons. That made him pause, and he looked across the desk at Zash, who was eating her breakfast with much more gentility, but also with no fear of it being poisoned. And it was unlikely that Zash would try to poison _him_, given all the effort she was putting into training him. He would only need to worry about her motives if he actually became a threat to her. But as long as she needed him to kill Skotia, he was safe.

But more importantly, he was _hungry_. Although he’d said he was used to it, that didn’t mean he actually _liked _it, and the last week had been hard on him. So despite a few moments of uncertainty, Zavahier soon went back to devouring his food with all the enthusiasm of a starving Rancor.

As Zavahier ate, Zash talked. He nodded when it was appropriate, but in truth he had little to say to her. Zash spoke of wanting to conduct a thorough review of everything he had learned, since she had needed to rely on the Overseers at the Academy to give her reports - reports that had not always been accurate, such as those written by Harkun - and now she wanted to see his progress for herself. Especially the things he had learned that he _hadn’t_ told anyone about.

“But I didn’t—” Zavahier began when Zash expressed this.

“You dabbled in sorcery at the Academy long before you were ready for it,” Zash reminded him. “And I think I know you quite well. I’ve given you a lot of freedom – which I’m sure you appreciate – but your recklessness will get you killed unless I provide a little more structure to your training.”

That was, despite Zash’s friendly tone, a rather strong criticism. Perhaps not completely unwarranted, all things considered. But Zavahier had to wonder if Zash had been informed of his experiments on the Mandalorians as well. If she had been told to do something to rein him in.

And _that_ annoyed him too.

“I don’t need anyone trying to control me,” Zavahier said. “Not you or anybody else.”

“Oh, no, no, no. This isn’t about controlling you, dear apprentice,” Zash said. “It’s about giving you focus, and providing avenues to practice your abilities in a more productive way. But don’t worry. I have something in mind, and I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

Yes, Zavahier was now _very_ sure that she had learned of his practising sorcery on the Mandalorians. She didn’t want to openly reprimand him. He wasn’t even sure that she _wanted_ to try to restrain him, but was just required to do so by her superiors.

And… well… at least he would probably learn more through Zash taking a more active role in his training than he had been by trying to figure everything out for himself. So it wasn’t really bad news, as such. It was even a little exciting.

He just didn’t like the idea that _anybody_ thought he needed to be controlled.

But… perhaps he could play along for now. Let the whole Empire _think_ Zash had succeeded in asserting some kind of control over him.

For now.

“First, you must rest,” Zash continued. “Go home and sleep, and your training will begin in earnest tomorrow.”

After finishing his meal and excusing himself from Zash’s presence, Zavahier returned to his apartment to discover that Shâsot had shredded and destroyed much of the furniture in both the living room and Zavahier’s bedroom, presumably out of boredom, since there had been no enemies for him to kill and consume. Khem, in an attempt to prevent further damage to the apartment, had locked the Tuk’ata out on the balcony, where he now sat in the rain, looking rather pathetic with his thick fur soaked through.

Khem had spent most of the following days disposing of ruined furniture and obtaining suitable replacements, which had, it transpired, necessitated spending a substantial amount of the contents of Zavahier’s bank account. Most of the replacement furniture was not even close to being as nice as what the apartment had initially been furnished with, and there were now no carpets on the floor at all.

Zavahier stared at them both in silence.

He didn’t even _want_ to deal with this right now, so he ignored them both and locked himself in his bedroom. He didn’t like his new bed, which was uncomfortably lumpy, so he pulled off all the bedding and pillows, and relocated to the floor where it was _marginally_ more comfortable. It still beat the cages he’d lived in as a slave, and that thought annoyed him too: how incredibly _low_ his standards of comfort were, that sleeping on the floor was considered acceptable. Some Sith he was!

Shâsot stared at him through the window, a distinctly accusing look on his fanged face.

Yes, on reflection, leaving an enormous Tuk’ata in his apartment for a whole week, with only Khem Val for supervision – when the Dashade himself needed more supervision than Zavahier really had time to provide – had been a rather stupid mistake. That was, apparently, the theme for the day.

But the lesson had been learned. Shâsot would have to be housed at the stables, where he would be unable to destroy anything of value, and Khem would have to be sent on more missions. And somehow, Zavahier would have to find enough credits to replace that awful bed.

No wonder other Sith thought that Zash needed to exert more control over him.

What kind of Sith couldn’t prevent their own home from being destroyed?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier's new lightsabre crystal is partially inspired by one of those little in-game things, where I wasn't paying attention and crafted a blue colour crystal by accident. Decided to just go with it and have the story crystal be the wrong colour too. Can't expect Zavahier's first attempts at crystal synthesis to be perfect!


	27. Practice Makes Perfect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier is given the opportunity see what Sith sorcery is capable of.

Zash was true to her word. She scheduled many training sessions over the course of the following weeks. At first these sessions focused on channelling the Force and drawing on his emotions, something he had already learned at the Academy… and a skill he believed he had already mastered. Zash showed him otherwise. With a great deal of encouragement – and regular reprimands whenever his attention wandered – she pushed him into actually _improving _on the meditation techniques he had been taught at the Academy.

Having one-on-one tutoring was certainly much better than the shared lessons with Lord Samus, when Zavahier had been learning alongside – and competing with – other acolytes. He wasn’t held back by the incompetence or laziness of the other students. He had Zash’s attention all to himself.

Which… wasn’t always a good thing. If he lost his concentration, she hit him with a small jolt of lightning. It wasn’t truly painful – not by Zavahier’s standards anyway – but it was enough to make him want to avoid future shocks.

The very first time it happened, Zavahier recoiled from Zash in surprise… and a little distress. Not because he was injured. The pain faded in seconds. No, it was because he had actually gotten used to Zash being kind to him, encouraging him, complimenting him. He had become accustomed to _not_ being hurt every time he made a mistake.

“I’m sorry, apprentice,” Zash said, and she reached out to touch his cheek, her expression softening when he flinched away from her. “I’m so sorry. I don’t like to hurt you. I don’t believe in training through force and intimidation. But you _must_ learn to focus. Do you understand?”

Zavahier did understand, so he nodded. He didn’t like it, not in the least. But he also knew he couldn’t say ‘no’ without seeming weak. And Zash was right. There were always so many thoughts in his mind – so many questions – that he was easily distracted. And that would prevent him from reaching his full potential. If it took a little pain for him to learn the things that would keep him alive, then so be it.

But remember this.

Remember it.

That moment when Zash chose to hurt him, if only a little. Beneath all the kindness, the friendly mannerisms, the desire to be his friend, there was no changing the fact that Zash was a Sith. That was a valuable lesson in itself.

Yet he learned from those shocks. His attention span improved. His ability to channel and hold his emotions got better. The fear of pain forced him to concentrate on what was happening _right now_. It didn’t eliminate the constant questions and curiosity. It didn’t stop him wondering about the universe. But it helped him to set them aside until a more appropriate time, allowing him to focus fully on the moment.

But Zash had a solution to his curiosity, too: when he had questions, she answered them. This was a much more enjoyable experience, because it didn’t matter what he asked, Zash seemed to revel in indulging his thirst for knowledge almost as much as he enjoyed learning. Through those conversations – which sometimes drew on into hours as one explanation inspired more questions – Zavahier learned a great deal, especially about sorcery, a subject that had never really been discussed at the Academy, and in which he had had very little instruction. Zash began teaching him new spells, too, and warmly praised his innate talent for Sith sorcery; he learned both violent, destructive spells, and those of healing and protection.

And then, once Zavahier was well enough to do so, Zash’s training extended into more physical areas; they sparred with each other, utilising both lightsabres and their Force abilities. Through these sessions, Zavahier sensed that Zash was holding back. Not enough to make their matches too easy for him, of course. He walked away from them rather bruised and tired; Zash constantly challenged him to improve his techniques, and didn’t hesitate to knock him down when he over-reached himself or made an impulsive mistake. But as long as he worked hard and tried his best, she held back her full strength, allowing him to practice without being completely overwhelmed by her greater experience.

Each success was warmly praised.

Every failure was a lesson to learn from.

Zavahier found himself enjoying it all. Oh, he didn’t like losing to Zash. He _especially_ didn’t like being shocked when he got distracted, or thrown into a wall when he didn’t defend himself as well as he should have. But taken as a whole, training with Zash was immensely rewarding. He learned more from her in the course of a few weeks than he had learned in three months at the Academy. Even the smallest victory made the pain worth it.

Such as that moment when he successfully dodged around Zash’s lightsabre, past her defences, and poked her in the stomach with his lightsabre, an attack which would have impaled her had he been aiming to kill her. But even a lightsabre on its lowest setting would hurt.

Zash doubled over in pain, and Zavahier seized his opportunity, sending forth a thrust of Force energy that hurled her backwards. She landed heavily on the training mat, wheezing to catch her breath, and as she struggled to get back to her feet, Zavahier darted forward and pressed his lightsabre blade against her neck.

“And now you’re dead,” he said, echoing Zash’s own words when she defeated him. Pleasure and satisfaction glowed within him, such a wonderful feeling that he was smiling when he stepped back from Zash and deactivated his lightsabre. It didn’t even matter that the _only_ reason he’d won was because she had been holding back her full strength. They were sparring, not fighting to the death. But it was immeasurably satisfying to beat her for the first time.

“Well done, Ezerdus,” Zash said, apparently every bit as pleased as he was. She rose to her feet again, seeming oddly… fragile in her movements. But she recovered quickly, standing straight and smoothing out the creases in her robes. “That was very well done indeed. You’ve been making remarkable progress, apprentice.”

Zavahier’s smile broadened at the praise, but he still looked away from Zash, a little uncomfortable with it nonetheless. It was one thing to be pleased with his own accomplishments. Another thing entirely to actually be told he’d done well by someone else.

“Clearly I’ll have to make things a little more challenging for you,” Zash said.

Yet the next day when Zavahier went to Zash’s office for a training session, she didn’t take him to the training rooms they had been using. Instead, she led him out of the Citadel and through the city, speaking cryptically of a ‘special treat’, his reward for working hard and finally defeating her in that sparring match. By the time they reached the Imperial detention centre, Zash was smiling in anticipation.

Zavahier, however, hesitated at the entrance, a little anxious despite Zash’s clear excitement. This building was a prison, and he was wary of being trapped or confined. Just because Zash approved of how his abilities had been progressing didn’t mean every other Sith did. It didn’t take long for Zash to realise he had stopped following her, and she turned back to face him.

“Come on, apprentice. You have nothing to fear here,” she assured him.

A little reluctantly, Zavahier went inside, but he remained alert for danger. And within a few minutes, began to feel a bit silly for having been worried; he and Zash were the only Sith present, and the Imperial officer that came to greet them was nothing but polite and respectful.

“The prisoners are ready for your apprentice, Lord Zash,” the officer said. “I’ve been promising them some special time with a Sith for the last week.”

“Wonderful,” Zash said, before turning to Zavahier. “A number of Republic spies recently attempted to sabotage one of the main power generators for the city, but were captured. Imperial Intelligence attempted to extract information from them, but failed. Now it’s your turn to give it a try.”

“Really?” Zavahier asked, a surge of excitement rippling through him at the prospect. It really wasn’t what he’d been expecting… but he had absolutely no objections. He was just surprised.

Zash chuckled lightly. “Yes, really. Go with Lieutenant Hircord. Use whatever means you desire to make them talk.”

“This is going to be so much fun,” Zavahier said, before following Hircord deeper into the detention centre.

The lieutenant brought him into a large room. It was equipped with a great variety of torture devices, and several interrogation probes hovered nearby. Zavahier would need no such technology to assist him. The Force was his to command, and he had learned so much from Zash in the last few weeks that he was eager to put those newly developed skills to good use.

There was a viewing gallery looking out over the room, and Zavahier saw Zash there, waiting behind the glass, along with several people he didn’t recognise; three officers from Imperial Intelligence, and a handful of prison personnel. The former were undoubtedly here to see what information he could get out of the prisoners. The latter… who could say why they were there? Maybe just to see what a Sith could do.

Right, so, no pressure, then?

Eight prisoners – five men and three women – were brought into the room, and forcibly restrained on the interrogation tables. They wore civilian clothes, something which had obviously been part of their attempt to pass unnoticed through Imperial society. If one of them hadn’t started pleading for mercy in what was very clearly a Republic accent, Zavahier might have questioned whether they were truly spies at all.

There was, however, a somewhat familiar look to them. They were tired and hungry, with dark shadows beneath their eyes, and the despair and misery that clung to them was palpable. Zavahier had seen people like this before. He’d grown up around them.

But these weren’t slaves.

They were enemies.

Republic filth that had dared to attack Zavahier’s home.

Now, which one to play with first?

Well, the one who had begged for mercy, obviously. The weakest member of the group was the best place to start; he would be more easily dominated… and more likely to provoke compassion in his fellows.

Zavahier went over to the weakest, and stared at him for a short time, trying to decide on the best approach. It would be easy to use his lightning to make the man talk. Well, scream, really. But after that, pain and terror might coax him into revealing Republic secrets. Yet he already knew how to use Force lightning. He was very, very good at it. Instead, he would rather use this as an opportunity to practice the abilities he had less experience with. He had been warned away from practicing sorcery against the Mandalorians, but right here and now, he had full permission to do whatever he wanted to his victims.

“_Jen’pragari_,” Zavahier said, speaking the words and making the gesture with his hand. A surge of dark energy left his fingertips and tore into the man’s body. He held back his full strength, however; he wanted to hurt the prisoner, not tear him apart.

Not yet, anyway.

His victim screamed as the bolt of darkness entered his body and began painfully squeezing his internal organs. Crush the lungs, and the man would not be able to breathe. Compress his heart – only for a few moments – he would panic, believing himself to be dying.

And then Zavahier drew back, leaving the man wheezing for breath and trying to choke back sobs. Just for a few moments, though. Zavahier didn’t allow his victim the chance to fully recover before casting the next spell.

“_Pjautirenjotas_!” Zavahier snarled, drawing on his deepest, darkest emotions – just as Zash had taught him – to assault the prisoner’s nerves with raw, savage pain. It was rather fitting that the spell meant ‘unlimited torment’. To this, he added an affliction of the blood, the very same one he had used to defeat Yadira Ban.

The prisoner screamed, the harsh, high-pitched sound filling the room. He struggled against his restraints, writhing in agony as the dreadful power of the dark side tore through his body, ravaging him with the kind of pain that even lightning couldn’t inflict.

And Zavahier fed on all that pain and terror, drinking it in eagerly and letting it further empower him.

“This is sick,” one of the other prisoners cried out in desperation. “This is really sick. It’s inhuman. You can’t do this!”

“Oh, I rather think I can,” Zavahier said, now focusing all his attention on the woman who’d called out to him. She was some kind of green, near-human alien with geometric tattoos on her face. How had she even managed to pass for an Imperial, looking like that? Maybe that was why she’d been caught. “Unless, of course, you want to give me the information I want.”

“What information? We don’t know anything!” the woman replied. “Please, just stop torturing him!”

“Why?” Zavahier asked.

“Because… because you don’t have to do this,” the prisoner said. “You don’t have to be like this. You don’t have to be evil.”

“That’s a bit rich, coming from you,” Zavahier replied coolly. “You tried to blow up Kaas City. That would have killed thousands of people. What does that make you, if not evil?”

“It was necessary. The Empire will enslave the whole galaxy!” the woman insisted.

That word was a sensitive one, and Zavahier flinched instinctively. And then retaliated by stretching out his hand towards the woman. He moved his fingers together, then flicked them apart and said, “_Dzunotasak_!”

Sharp, thorn-like spikes of dark energy shot through the air and stabbed into the overly mouthy prisoner, piercing her skin and embedding themselves in her flesh. She tried to hold herself back from screaming, but she still moaned in pain. Zavahier focused on the dark needles buried in her body, and twisted them sharply, cutting through muscle and internal organs until they came up against solid bone.

Yet still she wouldn’t scream. She groaned, and bit her tongue hard enough to draw blood.

“If you don’t scream, I’ll go back to hurting your friends,” Zavahier told her, gesturing towards the weakest prisoner with a jerk of his head. He sensed a connection between the two. A mutual attraction, and a deep, loving attachment. Exactly the kind of bond that needed to be exploited.

“I won’t!” the woman said. “I won’t do what you want.”

“Fine,” Zavahier said. He turned away from her, but did not dispel the dark thorns still buried in her flesh. He wanted her to continue suffering physically while he showed her the futility of resisting him.

He began tearing into the prisoners with every spell he had learned. This was his chance to truly explore his power, to do things he had never had the chance to try, and to be really _creative_ about it in the process. Zavahier drew on the Force to burn out one of the prisoner’s eyes, searing them away with black flames, and then directed those flames to spread over his whole body. The man screamed as the dark fire blazed across his flesh.

Zavahier left him to burn, moving onto the next prisoner. He would visit each of them, and deliver to them the most vicious, imaginative torments he could. It was no longer about wringing information from their wretched mouths, but making them suffer the consequences of their leader’s refusal to submit.

The next prisoner was subjected to a spell that crushed his lungs and shattered bones beneath the force of a great illusionary rock, and a second spell preserved his life, denying him the death that he so pleaded for. Dark, spiky tendrils groped a third prisoner in deeply violating ways, pushing into every orifice and muffling the man’s screams. And a particularly savage spell transformed a prisoner’s tongue into a writhing, hissing serpent, and she wriggled and whined, desperately wanting to remove it from her mouth, but her arms were held fast to the table.

Through it all, the song of the Force played for him, encouraging him to delve deeper and deeper into the darkness.

But still the woman – probably their leader, now that he thought about it – refused to cry out. She whimpered, still feeling the pain of the dark needles buried in her, but it was her distress at seeing her companions tortured that _really_ left its mark. Tears rolled freely from her eyes as she watched him torture her companions, and Zavahier could _feel_ her anguish. All that unhappiness and pain… and her utter _hatred_ of him. She loathed him with every fibre of her being. She wanted to kill him.

Leaving the other prisoners to marinate in their pain and torment, Zavahier wandered over to the prisoner’s leader, and looked down at her.

“This was all your fault, you know,” he said softly. “None of this needed to happen.” It was a lie, of course. Some version of this would have happened regardless. The only thing that would have changed would be _who_ he was playing with. Perhaps what spells he used.

“You’re a coward,” she hissed. “You think torturing chained prisoners makes you strong. But it doesn’t. You’re just a monster.”

“You understand nothing,” Zavahier replied. He didn’t need to justify himself to this piece of _filth_. This display of power was nothing to do with fear or cowardice. He could have done all of this even if they had been free and heavily armed. He _would _have done this to those Mandalorians if that Darth hadn’t chased him away.

“Oh, I think I understand well enough,” the woman said. “You’re doing this because you think it’s _fun_. Let me out of these bindings, and we’ll see how much you enjoy it then!”

Zavahier considered this, and then smiled. “Alright. I’ll let you go, and you can try to kill me. And then I’ll show you what I can do.” He stepped forward and released the bindings holding her to the table. Then he stepped back, just standing motionless – not preparing to use his Force abilities, nor reaching for his lightsabre – and waited to see what she would do.

The Republic prisoner leaped away from the interrogation table and lunged at him in a futile attempt to grab his throat. She was actually a little taller than him, and despite the abuse she had suffered since being captured by the Empire, she was more heavily muscled than him as well. But it made no difference. Zavahier effortlessly sidestepped her attack.

“_Odojinya_,” he said, unleashing a web of dark energy that wrapped around her, ensnaring her in a lattice of black threads. With a little concentration, he pulled on those threads, forcing the prisoner into an uncomfortable position, her limbs outstretched at awkward angles.

She glared at him, and then said, “Exchanging one restraint for another doesn’t make you any less a coward.”

“I just wanted to show you how pointless it is to challenge me,” Zavahier said, dismissing the dark web with a flick of his fingers, and the woman dropped onto the floor. “Now come on. If you think you can kill me, then do it.”

She climbed slowly to her feet, but never took her eyes off him. She was calculating her next move. After a few moments, she made her choice; she darted forward and made a grab for Zavahier’s lightsabre, clearly thinking that arming herself would give her an advantage.

He was _almost _tempted to let her succeed, just so that he could take the weapon away from her with ridiculous ease. But there had been far too many people having the audacity to touch his lightsabre lately, and he certainly wasn’t going to let some genocidal Republic spy lay so much as a _finger_ on his carefully constructed weapon. So Zavahier dodged her again, and pushed at her with the Force, sending her sprawling across the floor. Then he reached out and pressed against her back, holding her in a kneeling position before him.

“Hmm… how do you like your rightful place, Republic cur?” Zavahier asked.

“You’re insane,” the woman snarled up at him as she tried to stand despite the weight of the Force holding her down.

“You’re the one who can’t use common sense,” Zavahier pointed out. “Just scream for me, and all of this will be over.” Another lie. This would end only when he was bored, or tired, or the prisoners gave away their secrets and Zash _made_ him stop.

“Just do it, Jahai,” one of the other prisoners said weakly. “Give him what he wants.”

“No! I won’t! Creatures like him are why we fight. I won’t give in,” the woman replied.

She was incredibly strong-willed, wasn’t she? Especially for someone without a particularly strong connection to the Force. And if physical pain and watching her friends suffer wasn’t enough to make her submit, then Zavahier would simply have to try something else. And he already had the perfect idea.

It was called _Qâzoi Kyantuska_, which translated as ‘suppress thought’, and it was, perhaps, the most powerful – and difficult – spell in his arsenal. There were no gestures or incantations to guide it; it was simply his will against hers, his mind pressing into hers as he crushed her ability to resist, and forced her into a kind of trance. She gazed at him, her large blue eyes meeting his golden ones, and her expression blank. So, too, were her thoughts. She existed now as an extension of his will.

And now she was his, to do with as he pleased, for as long as his concentration held, and as long as he had the strength to dominate her.

He might only have a few seconds.

“Now stand, Jahai, is it?” Zavahier ordered, and the woman did so. She was helpless to do _anything_ but follow his commands. “And kill your lover.” With a wave of his hand, he sent Jahai over to the weakest of the prisoners, and made her wrap her hands around his throat. Zavahier could feel Jahai trying to resist him, but despite her unusual strength of will, it was nothing compared to his own, and she could only feebly object as he forced her to crush the life from her lover.

The prisoner struggled weakly, and though he couldn’t speak with her thumbs pressing into his windpipe, his eyes implored her to stop. It was futile, though. He gurgled and died, falling limp against the interrogation table.

Only then did Zavahier release Jahai from his control. She burst into tears and threw herself across her lover’s body, pleading with him to still be alive, and begging him for forgiveness.

“He won’t answer,” Zavahier said.

Jahai raised her head and looked over at him, narrowing her eyes. “You… you… you made me do this. Made me… kill my beloved. Oh… why? _Why_?”

“Because I could,” Zavahier replied. “You’ll kill the others for me, too. Put them out of their misery.” A lie. He probably didn’t have the strength to use Qâzoi Kyantuska again. He was making a conscious effort to keep his breath steady, but the exertion had tired him. None of them needed to know that. The other prisoners had all been thoroughly ravaged and tormented by his magic. They still squirmed and writhed in pain, though their screams had melted away into weak groans, as though they couldn’t withstand much more.

“No. Please, no,” Jahai begged him. “I’ll… I’ll do anything. Just… have mercy. Please!”

“You know what I want,” Zavahier said, before reaching out and striking her with a blast of pure darkness powered by rage and hate.

And now, finally, she screamed, letting out a piercing cry as she was thrown backwards. She tumbled off the table on which her deceased lover was outstretched, and fell with a crash to the floor. Zavahier held her there for several long moments, pinning her against the floor and really making her _feel_ all the suffering he could inflict. Then he let the magic fade away, and stepped towards her, looking down at her prone form.

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he asked.

Jahai sobbed pitifully, curling into a tight ball on the floor, her whole body heaving as she cried. “I—I’ll talk. The information you want. Just—just please stop hurting us,” she said.

“Go on. Tell me,” Zavahier said, not committing to ending the torture.

“There—there’s another SIS unit… in the city,” Jahai said. “They—they—they’re going to—to bomb the Citadel. Take out the whole Dark Council all at once.”

“Anything else I should know?” Zavahier asked.

Jahai shook her head. “No. No, that’s all, I swear. Please…”

Zavahier looked up at the viewing gallery, not sure if the Intelligence officers up there could hear everything that was said. Not sure if he was now expected to stop, or if he had free rein to continue having fun with these prisoners. However, he was momentarily distracted by the presence of a second, wholly unfamiliar Sith standing next to Zash. He was an older man with a cybernetic eye, and he seemed to be watching the interrogation – or possibly Zavahier himself – with faint curiosity.

One of the Intelligence officers stepped forward, and pressed a button at the base of the viewing window. “Where are the SIS agents hidden?” she asked.

Zavahier looked down at Jahai. “Well? Tell her,” he ordered in a dark, menacing tone that promised further torture if she failed to answer.

Jahai flinched away from him, and looked tearfully up at the viewing gallery. “I’ll tell you everything. Just… send the Sith away. Please.”

The Intelligence officer glanced at Zash for confirmation, and when she had received a nod of agreement, she said, “Alright, but if you hold anything back, we’ll let the Sith have another go.”

“I won’t, I promise,” Jahai said.

Within minutes, the three Intelligence officers had made their way down into the interrogation room, and Zash called for Zavahier to leave them to their work. He was a _little_ annoyed at being held back from finishing the prisoners off… but he supposed they were more useful alive, at least for the time being. And his irritation was _nothing_ compared to his elation and excitement. As he approached Zash in the corridor outside the interrogation room, and saw that she was smiling at him, he couldn’t resist smiling back.

“That was _so_ much fun!” Zavahier told her, unable to restrain his enthusiasm. “Thank you.”

“It’s quite alright, apprentice,” Zash replied warmly. “This wasn’t just about entertainment, though. I hope you realise that.”

Zavahier nodded. He understood that clearly; although this had been a great deal of fun, he also recognised the value in having made Jahai admit to the plot to destroy the Citadel. “Will Intelligence be able to stop the Republic blowing up the Dark Council?”

“Oh, yes, there’s no doubt about that,” Zash said. “But that wasn’t the only reason I brought you here. It was a test of your abilities, of everything you’ve learned. I must say you acquitted yourself _very_ well. But where did you learn _Qâzoi Kyantuska_? I never taught you that one.”

“A holocron,” Zavahier replied evasively. That particular spell had been taught to him by the holocron he’d had Khem steal from Lord Rhuzai, and it _technically_ belonged to the Citadel library. “I wasn’t sure I could make it work, but…” He trailed off, smiling again. No reason not to feel pleased with himself.

Zash accepted this answer with a nod. She obviously knew that he had been gathering knowledge beyond the things she had been teaching him, and since this was expected behaviour from a Sith apprentice, she didn’t press him for more information about where he’d acquired such a holocron. “You’ve certainly put your knowledge to good use. I’m so proud of you, dear apprentice.”

“Who was that other Sith? The one who was watching with you?” Zavahier asked.

“No one you need to worry about. He happened to be passing by, and was curious,” Zash replied, and Zavahier thought he detected a little evasiveness there, so very much like his own. It seemed he wasn’t the only one holding back some information.

Still…

If the Sith was dangerous or had hostile intentions, then surely Zash would have warned Zavahier to be cautious?

Of course, any Sith worthy of the title would already know that. Zavahier didn’t _need_ to be told to be wary and suspicious of other Sith. He was going to do that anyway, perhaps even more so because he didn’t know who that Sith was or what his intentions had been. After all, it was possible that Zash had just been looking for a second opinion regarding Zavahier’s abilities, but it was _equally_ plausible that such a great outpouring of dark energy had attracted some unwanted attention. Or, yes, maybe the man had just been bored and stopped to watch because pretty much _any_ Sith would enjoy watching Republic prisoners being tortured.

Not having all the information was nevertheless rather irritating. It was hard to know exactly how paranoid to be when Zash was keeping secrets.

“There is a title for those with an aptitude for sorcery, which I think you’ve earned. How does Zel-Ezerdus sound to you?” Zash suggested before he could ask any more questions about the other Sith.

Zavahier had seen the prefix ‘Zel’ used throughout several history books, always applied to Sith who – as Zash had said – had a special talent with Sith magic. The title was a little old-fashioned now, and not often used; sorcery wasn’t a particularly common gift, requiring a natural affinity that not all Sith possessed, and the ‘Lord’ and ‘Darth’ titles were more fiercely coveted regardless. But to a former slave who was struggling to find his place in Imperial society, such a title meant everything. And he strongly suspected that Zash may have used it herself before she became a Sith Lord.

“Zel-Ezerdus,” he said, trying out the title to see how it felt on his tongue. How it sounded when spoken with his voice. “I like it,” he decided, allowing Zash to believe that she had successfully distracted him.

_Obviously_ that meant he should be extremely paranoid.


	28. Wild Ideas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier puts all the recent events together.

The Citadel remained standing throughout the course of the next week, which Zavahier took to mean that the information he had wrung from Jahai had been enough for Intelligence to thwart the Republic’s plans. Yet he was uneasy, and there were other signs that danger still loomed over Kaas City. Zavahier had been so proud of his interrogation of the prisoners that he had shared the story one evening with Caider, Janzem and Âyihsai – because at least _this_ was something he didn’t have to keep secret, unlike the plans for Darth Skotia – and they in turn had related some stories of their own.

“My master sent me out to check on the archaeologists, right, because they were late reporting in,” Caider explained. “So I went all the way out to their outpost, and they were so wrapped up in whatever they’re doing that they just gave me the brush off. When I pressed them for information, the head archaeologist gave me this silly excuse about being harassed by spacers asking for supplies. And, I dunno, I thought something sounded a bit off about it, so I asked a few more questions, and the guy says the spacers were after new uniforms.”

“That’s rather odd,” Âyihsai said thoughtfully. “Why would spacers need Reclamation Service uniforms?”

“That’s _exactly_ what I said!” Caider said. “But all Shellaster cared about was the fact that Nashal has better equipment than him. So, I figured I’d better investigate it myself, because I didn’t want to go back to Arctis without a decent explanation. But when I got to Nashal’s camp, it was completely destroyed, like a Rancor had charged through or something. I found just _one_ survivor, a guy who went and hid like a coward when the camp was attacked. But he overheard the ‘spacers’ talking while they were ransacking the place, and he was sure they were Republic spies.”

“They wanted the uniforms so they could infiltrate the Reclamation Service, then?” Zavahier asked. It sounded far too much like what the prisoners he’d tortured had done: dressed themselves up like Imperial personnel in order to move around Kaas City undetected.

“Yeah,” Caider confirmed. “I can think of better groups to infiltrate, but I guess they thought they’d be less noticeable than trying to impersonate _real_ officers. You know what the Reclamation Service are like. Great bunch of weirdos.”

Janzem nodded his agreement to this. “They complain every time you draw your lightsabre anywhere _near _something old. It’s like they think we don’t have any self-control.”

“I know, right?” Caider said. “Anyway, it was just like with Ez’s spies. I found them in this cave just outside the city, and they were all in disguise, except as Reclamation Service rather than civilians. So, I killed them all, and right at the back of the cave, there were enough supplies for _hundreds_ of spies. It makes me wonder how many more are out there, you know?”

“More than there should be, certainly,” Âyihsai said. “Some spies actually succeeded in setting explosives around Ergast’s Plaza, the day before yesterday. They were permacrete detonators that would have destroyed the whole area, including the whole Imperial Citizenship Bureau, as well as the Bounty Offices. The bomb disposal squads were having trouble locating and removing all the devices, so I agreed to help. I tracked down every explosive. I tore them from the walls of Kaas City with the Force, and shielded them until they could be safely disposed of.”

Yes, Âyihsai certainly had a flair for the dramatic, didn’t she? Zavahier couldn’t help but smile. It was such a stark contrast with Caider’s more casual way of retelling events.

“But I couldn’t find whoever set the explosives in the first place. They’re still out there, somewhere,” Âyihsai finished.

There was a long pause as the four Sith apprentices considered this. Zavahier was the first to break the silence. “The day I arrived on Dromund Kaas, someone had sabotaged the landing beacons around the spaceport. I fixed them… but I never discovered who did _that_ either.” And then… another thought. “Oh, I just realised something else.” Something he’d pushed aside and almost forgotten about, simply because he hadn’t been able to make sense of it at the time. But suddenly, it _did_ make sense.

“What?” Caider asked.

“Just after I arrived in Kaas City, Intelligence had me running all over the city, delivering mysterious packages,” Zavahier replied. “At the time, I just thought they were trying to keep me out of trouble—”

“What kind of trouble?” Âyihsai asked.

“Never mind that.” He’d been putting an end to the hunting games that had ended with Tifati, one of his friends’ friends, being executed. They did not need to know about that. “What’s important is it _wasn’t_ just a stupid errand. It was a trap for Republic spies. They were _supposed_ to notice me going all over the city, carrying an important-looking box. Any box carried by a Sith _has_ to be important, doesn’t it? So of course it would be too much temptation, and they’d _have_ to steal it.”

And that meant…

It really _did_ have a bomb in it!

Or something else deadly. Or maybe just a tracking device. Some kind of trap for the Republic, anyway. And it was undeniable proof that the Republic _did_ have spies on Dromund Kaas. More proof on top of all the other proof.

Zavahier frowned, now a little annoyed with himself. He should have realised this _weeks_ ago. All the clues had been there, but he’d been so caught up in Trandoshan relics and slave rebellions, training and lightsabre repairs, and even just _playing_ with his friends, that he just hadn’t really thought about it until now. Another reminder that he was far too easily distracted.

“Is it just me, or are all of these events connected?” Janzem asked.

“We should do something about it,” Zavahier said. A sense of determination settled on him. He’d ignored the threat the Republic posed for far too long. They’d been scurrying around _his_ city for weeks while his mind was flitting around other problems. With all that time to do whatever they liked, it was astounding that they _hadn’t_ succeeded in causing some serious damage.

“Like what?” Caider asked, looking at him rather sceptically. “Imperial Intelligence is supposed to handle this stuff.”

“Yes, and they’re doing a _very_ good job of it, aren’t they?” Zavahier said. “We have skills they don’t. We have _senses_ they don’t. And if we’re not going to _use_ those abilities, what’s the point in having them? We should hunt down every last Republic spy in the city, and kill them before they blow up something that actually matters. Like _this _building.”

Caider, Janzem and Âyihsai exchanged looks, and then looked around at the lounge, the place where they gathered several evenings a week to play hologames, or even just talk, as they were doing now.

“I agree with Ezerdus,” Âyihsai said. “This is our home. Not just this building, but the whole city. The whole planet, even. We should defend it.”

“Yeah. Plus _I_ want a chance to kill some Republic spies,” Janzem said, looking at Zavahier, and then at Caider. “It’s not fair that you two got to do something _that_ fun, and Âyihsai and I haven’t.”

Caider hesitated for several moments. He had never outright _said_ it, but there was no doubt that he thought himself the group’s leader simply by virtue of his master being on the Dark Council. Yet here and now, this was Zavahier’s plan, and Âyihsai and Janzem had already committed to following him. “Well, I still think we ought to let Intelligence deal with it, but if you’re all insistent on going, then I’m in too. You need _someone_ sensible to come along,” he said at last.

“Good. We’ll need you,” Zavahier said. He hadn’t, as yet, formed a solid plan for exactly how the Republic spies would be located. He’d expressed the desire to do something about the threat hanging over Kaas City on the spur of the moment, not really expecting them to agree with him, or have any interest in helping. After all, they were Sith, beings who were predominantly only interested in their own well-being. They should have thought him crazy for wanting to do something as selfless as protecting the city. They should have said it was a waste of a Sith’s time. That there were better ways of spending his time.

Like playing Huttball with them?

Maybe he was doing them a disservice, thinking like that. The fact that they wanted to help him protect the city _meant_ something.

And now Caider, Janzem and Âyihsai were looking at him expectantly, waiting to hear exactly what the plan was.

Alright, then.

No pressure.

“First, we need to do a sweep of the city to make sure there are no more bombs, and to seek out anyone who looks suspicious,” Zavahier said. It was the logical place to start when they didn’t yet know the full scale of the threat. “Trust your senses. The spies will be trying to deceive us, hiding amongst innocent people, but we have an advantage that Intelligence doesn’t: we will _feel_ their deception. We will hunt them down, one by one, and we’ll find out what they know. And then we’ll kill them.”

“You mean… _now_?” Caider asked, glancing out of the window at the darkening sky outside.

Zavahier hesitated briefly. And then nodded. “Yes, now. Did you think we’d just play Huttball while the Republic sneaks around our city planting bombs? Now is the perfect time for us to catch them by surprise. Besides, we’re Sith. The darkness belongs to_ us_.”

Âyihsai smiled faintly at that last part, and got up from her seat. “I need some time to get ready. These aren’t the right robes for hunting spies,” she said, brushing her fingers across the fine black and red silk robes she was currently wearing. She was certainly not the only one, either; Zavahier, Caider and Janzem were also wearing robes more suited to relaxing than fighting.

“Alright, we’ll meet in the lobby in say… twenty minutes?” Caider suggested.

This received a round of agreement, and the group went to the elevator, using it to return to their own apartments. Zavahier got changed, exchanging his loose black robes for his armour, and then attached his lightsabre to his belt. Assuming he successfully located some spies tonight, it would be his first opportunity to use his modified lightsabre against a real enemy. The prospect was rather exciting, actually.

Khem was presently absent from the apartment, performing another artefact retrieval errand; Zavahier had heard, in passing, of an archaeological excavation in the jungle that the Imperial Reclamation Service had been forced to abandon because it was the Yozusk mating season. Sending Khem to deal with the Yozusks and retrieve any valuable relics before the Reclamation Service returned had been far too tempting to resist. It meant that Zavahier couldn’t rely on Khem’s backup if all of this should go horribly wrong. Hopefully he wouldn’t need the Dashade’s strength.

And Shâsot had been relocated to the Kaas City stables, which had needed to build a new pen that was both large and sturdy enough to contain him. That expense that had been passed on to Zavahier, and it was one that he could scarcely afford at the moment.

Maybe there’d be some credits for locating and killing the Republic spies. The Empire did like to reward success, after all.

Caider was already waiting when Zavahier arrived at the lobby. The other Sith was wearing heavy black and grey armour, with spikes on his shoulders, and he carried a pair of lightsabres. It was a few more minutes before the second elevator opened, and Âyihsai stepped out. Her red and gold armoured robes were similar in style to Zavahier’s – light and designed to allow the greatest possible freedom of movement – but much more finely made, reflecting a level of wealth far in excess of his, and the hilt of her double-bladed lightsabre was decorated with gold filigree and deep red rubies. And then, finally, Janzem joined them, wearing deep red armour with broad shoulder-pads, and strips of black leather wrapped like a lattice around his _lekku_, as much for show as protection.

The sight of his three friends pleased Zavahier. As a group, they certainly looked impressive: four Sith, all armed to the teeth and prepared for whatever they would find lurking in the alleys of Kaas City, and it was all because of _him_.

But now that he’d established himself as the leader, he needed to live up to the role.

“Alright, here’s what we’re going to do,” he said decisively. He had, at least, had twenty minutes to refine his plan a little. “Caider and Janzem, take—”

Zavahier broke off suddenly when another Sith apprentice entered the building. He knew her face, but hadn’t learned her name; she had always looked down on him, considering him beneath her notice, so he treated her with the same disdain. She paused in her steps to stare at the group for a few moments, so Zavahier fixed her with a fierce look of his own.

“Can we help you?” he asked, taking on an imperious tone that made it _quite_ clear that he had absolutely no interest in explaining the presence of himself _or_ his companions to her.

“No,” she replied, turning away and taking the elevator.

“It’s a shame she hates you, Ez. She might have been useful. She’s pretty strong,” Caider remarked.

“You say that about all the girls,” Âyihsai said.

“No I don’t. Only the genuinely strong ones,” Caider said, flashing Âyihsai a smile, which she pointedly ignored.

“Moving on…” Âyihsai said. “What’s the plan, Ezerdus?”

“Caider and Janzem, do a sweep of the eastern part of the city, from the storehouses right up to the Central Plaza and the Citadel. Âyihsai, will you come with me to patrol the west? I’d like to inspect Ergast’s Plaza and see if we can find any traces of the spies who planted the bombs there,” Zavahier said, outlining the first stage of his plan to the other three Sith.

“I’m sure Imperial Intelligence have already done a thorough inspection, but I’ll come with you to see if there’s anything they’ve missed,” Âyihsai said.

“Wonderful,” Zavahier said, unexpectedly pleased that she – no, not just Âyihsai, but Caider and Janzem too – had agreed to his plan without finding fault with it. “Oh, before we go, we should exchange holo frequencies, so we can keep in contact and exchange information about what we find.”

This process was quickly completed, and even though Zavahier and Âyihsai would be searching the city together, Zavahier took the opportunity to add her contact details to his holocomm, while she added his to hers.

“Just in case we get separated,” Âyihsai said with a smile.

And then they set off into the night. Caider and Janzem left to begin their sweep of the eastern parts of the city as soon as they had left the building, while Zavahier and Âyihsai began a more lengthy walk to the west. They could, perhaps, have called for a taxi to take them there, but Zavahier decided against that: flying over the city would be quicker, but they might miss important details in the process. At least on the ground they could be alert for anyone acting suspiciously.

“I’m glad we’re doing this,” Âyihsai said as she fell into step beside Zavahier. “I don’t like knowing my home is in danger.”

“Neither do I,” Zavahier agreed.

“Where is home for you? You’re not from Dromund Kaas,” Âyihsai asked.

“I was raised on Caekarro. But it was never home,” Zavahier replied. There was still a part of him that was proudly Caekarran – he clung to that fierce independence and determination to forge his own path – but that didn’t change the fact that his life on his home planet had been nothing but suffering. He hadn’t truly _lived_ until he’d left. “This is my home now.” A brief pause, and then, “What about you?”

“I was born here. In this city,” Âyihsai said. “See that tall building in the south, with the landing lights at the very top. My parents’ home. I could have stayed living with them when I became an apprentice, but… I needed some space.”

“Are they Sith too? Your parents, I mean,” Zavahier asked.

“Yes. Both of them. They don’t approve of my current living arrangements. They say I should live somewhere more fitting. More commensurate with my proud lineage,” Âyihsai said. “If they had their way, I would be living alone in some vast palace out in the jungle. Appealing in a way, of course. But I chose to live amongst other apprentices for a reason, and that reason hasn’t changed.”

“Oh?” Zavahier asked, prompting her to explain.

“My parents are the previous generation, veterans of the last war. I’d rather spend my time getting to know the Sith I’ll be fighting alongside in the _next_ war,” Âyihsai explained. “We’re the future. You, me, Caider, Janzem. All of the apprentices. We’re the ones who will decide what the galaxy looks like ten years from now.”

“I’m going to be Emperor by then,” Zavahier said.

“Well, I can think of worse people to claim that role,” Âyihsai said, glancing sideways at him, and then looking up at the heavily overcast sky above them. “The Emperor has been silent for so long. Some of us wonder if he’s even guiding the Empire anymore.”

“But if he’s not here… where is he?” Zavahier asked. It was a question he had never asked before, not to himself and not to anybody else either. He had barely given the matter any thought, really; of course he _knew_ that the Sith Emperor had been absent for some time, while the Dark Council made all the day-to-day decisions for the Empire. But it was only in that moment, as Âyihsai spoke of it, that Zavahier actually thought about it, and realised how strange it was that after centuries of watching over the Empire, the Emperor had fallen silent.

Yet it was almost… forbidden to speak of. Oh, someone might remark that a noise was loud enough to wake the Emperor, or similar vague references. But to actually _ask_ where he was and what he was doing… That was taboo.

“You should be careful with questions like that,” Âyihsai warned him, but there was a slightly playful edge to her voice, and she was smiling.

“You’re the one who brought it up,” Zavahier replied, returning her smile. He didn’t completely trust Âyihsai, yet there was something he enjoyed about her company. It was the way she seemed to think about and question everything, but with more self-assurance than his own curiosity. And she’d never looked down on him for being a former slave, even though he was quite sure that she must have known. And… she was really pretty, wasn’t she?

“Well, we’ll just _both_ have to get in trouble, won’t we?” Âyihsai suggested.

They walked in silence for a while, until they reached Ergast’s Plaza. It was an open square surrounded by offices and warehouses, and was named for the statue that stood in the centre, a monument to an ancient Sith Lord called Ergast. There were smaller monuments that stood at the four corners of a large ornamental pond, and Zavahier could see smoky wisps of Force energy rising from each of them.

“The bombs were attached to the walls around the plaza,” Âyihsai said, pointing to four tiny indents in the wall, where spiked clasps had held the explosives in place. “They must have been placed here under the cover of darkness, because nobody saw anything, as far as I know.”

“If Intelligence had found the person responsible, I’m not sure they would have told you,” Zavahier pointed out.

“True, but it was pure chance that the bombs were noticed before they detonated, which again suggests that no one saw them being placed. Therefore, at night,” Âyihsai said.

Zavahier nodded. “Alright, that makes sense,” he agreed, accepting Âyihsai’s rationale for believing the culprit hadn’t been identified yet. He stepped away from the wall and looked around, trying to get a feel for not just the plaza itself, but the area around it. There wasn’t much to see in the darkness, admittedly, but…

“Over there,” he said, pointing to the west. “There are usually cranes and construction machinery visible in that direction during the day, aren’t there?”

“Yes, that’s where the city is being expanded,” Âyihsai said. “New homes, military installations, equipment stores, and the like.”

“Wouldn’t that be the perfect place for Republic terrorists to hide? It’s the only part of the city that isn’t perfectly organised. That makes it much easier for intruders to go unnoticed,” Zavahier said. “They couldn’t bomb the Citadel after I got the information out of the captured spies. Security was too tight. But right here, in this plaza… they could still sneak in here and plant those bombs.”

“Hmm, I don’t know,” Âyihsai said doubtfully. “Have you ever actually gone into the expansion district? It’s chaotic and poorly surveilled, certainly, but there are thousands of people and droids that work there every day. I find it hard to believe that Republic spies could be hiding there without being noticed.”

“But they’re in disguise. If they wore the same uniforms as the workers, they could pass amongst them easily—” Zavahier said, and then cut himself off. “Oh… I see…”

“What? What is it?” Âyihsai asked when Zavahier didn’t immediately finish speaking.

“Don’t you see? It’s mostly _slaves_ working on the construction site, isn’t it?” Zavahier asked. “Slaves that nobody ever _really_ looks at. Most Imperials see the clothes and the collars, and never see the actual _people_ at all. That’s the answer, I’m sure of it. The spies are hidden amongst the slaves, secure in the knowledge that nobody will even _notice_ them.” Only a Sith that had once been a slave could have made that connection.

“And the slaves certainly have no motivation to tell anyone that there are Republic agents hidden amongst them. Why would they? This isn’t _their_ home. If anything, they’re _helping_ the spies,” Zavahier continued, only to then pause, hesitating for a few moments. He wasn’t sure of how honest he should be. But he had already resolved not to be anything but what he was. Anybody who had a problem with that was unworthy of him anyway. So he would tell the truth: “It’s what I would have done.”

Against all expectations, Âyihsai didn’t deride him for this. She just nodded. “Of course. But… are you sure you aren’t just seeing this through the lens of your own experiences? Most slaves lack your strength.”

“I’m sure. It’s not about strength. You… you don’t know what it’s like,” Zavahier said.

“Tell me,” Âyihsai said softly.

Zavahier gazed at her in silence for a long time, searching for some deception, some devious plan to get him to reveal his weaknesses to her. But he sensed nothing of the sort within Âyihsai. She was watching him with curiosity and… something else. Something gentler.

She was trusting him with a side of herself that she kept hidden when Caider and Janzem were around.

And that made the decision for Zavahier. If she was trusting him, then he would trust her in turn.

“A slave lives in fear all the time, but that fear isn’t a tool that can be used. It’s a chain. It keeps you bound just as much as the collar does. You have no control over your life. Even your body belongs to somebody else.”

Âyihsai gave an uncomfortable cough. “You mean, your owner used your body—?”

For a moment, Zavahier was confused about what she meant, and then he gave a short laugh. “No! No, I was never handsome enough for that. No, I just meant that you eat or sleep – and live or die – according to their whims. You live packed in with other slaves, no privacy, no choice about where you go or what you do. You wear the clothes your owner lets you have. And there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it,” he said, that last part spoken at barely more than a whisper. “Most of the time, you’re too afraid to even try.”

Âyihsai didn’t say anything at first, but she looked thoughtful – and somewhat troubled – as she considered Zavahier’s words. Eventually, she said, “It’s strange. My family owns many slaves, and I always considered such ownership to be my birthright. I am strong, and they are weak. Their fear was always… right. But I never really thought about how it must feel from the other side.”

“Nobody ever does,” Zavahier said. “That will cost the Empire dearly one day. If it hasn’t already.”

“Well, thank you for making _me_ think about it,” Âyihsai said. “I’m not sure if I would end the practice of slavery – which, unless I am very much mistaken, you would like to – but you’ve certainly given me a lot to think about. Even the most obvious truths must be questioned.”

Zavahier smiled at those words. “I agree. Blindly following tradition is the path of a fool. Why have minds if we’re not going to use them?” he asked. “And I should thank _you_, too. You’re right, I would like to end slavery across the whole Empire. It’s pointlessly wasteful and cruel. And you’ve helped me see that it’s going to be a complicated task to accomplish. But…” Here, he paused again, and met Âyihsai’s gaze. “If I can convince _you_ that it’s right, then I can convince the whole Empire.”

“Challenge accept—” Âyihsai began, but broke off suddenly and whirled around.

Zavahier sensed it too, and quickly ducked into the nearest alley, with Âyihsai following closely behind. He concentrated, trying to cloak them both with the Force, and when Âyihsai realised what he was doing, she wordlessly added her power to his, rendering them both completely invisible. It was just in time, too; mere seconds after they had concealed themselves, a small group of people crept into Ergast’s Plaza. They were wearing plain clothes similar to those worn by slaves, and had what looked like shock collars around their necks.

And yet…

“Those aren’t slaves,” Zavahier said in a whisper. “Ignore the clothes and the collars, look at the way they move. They’re well-fed. They’ve never lived in fear.” And the collars were probably inactive, or completely fake.

“Yes, I see it,” Âyihsai replied. “Let’s get closer, and see if we can hear what they’re saying.”

Zavahier nodded his agreement to this plan. Being careful to maintain their concealment, they crept out of the alley and around the edge of Ergast’s Plaza, approaching the group of ‘slaves’.

“Right, guys, we need to hide the bombs better this time, or else the damned Imps will just disarm them again,” one of the men said. He spoke with a drawling Republic accent from one of the Core worlds, and Zavahier thought he must be the leader. “And set a shorter countdown. Make it six hours.”

That would make the explosion happen in the early hours of the morning, if Zavahier judged the timing correctly. It was an odd choice, he thought: there would be few people around, since most of the buildings around the edge of the plaza were offices and warehouses. Everything he knew about the Republic told him that they would prefer to kill as many loyal Imperial citizens as possible. Blowing up empty offices seemed… out of character.

“They haven’t thought this through,” Âyihsai breathed in his ear, reaching the same conclusion.

“Let’s kill them before they decide to blow up something more important instead,” Zavahier said quietly.

“Agreed,” Âyihsai said, and without waiting for Zavahier, she dispelled the cloak that covered them both, and drew her lightsabre. She cut down one of the spies before they even realised what was happening, and then twirled around to slash a second one.

Not wanting to miss out on any of the carnage, Zavahier followed suit, igniting his own lightsabre and darting into the group of spies. If the spies were unprepared for one Sith to attack, they were even more unable to defend themselves against two, and Zavahier and Âyihsai made quick work of them. Only two of the spies managed to draw their blasters, getting off a few shots before Zavahier stabbed one in the gut, and Âyihsai decapitated the other with a broad sweep of her double-bladed lightsabre.

“Stop! Stop! I’m not—” one of the others cried out, right before Zavahier hit him with a blast of lightning that threw him back against the monument of Ergast. The man crumpled to the floor, his neck broken, and his body still twitching spasmodically from the lightning still sparking over him.

“That was fun,” Zavahier remarked, once all of the spies were dead. He smiled at Âyihsai. “We have to do this again sometime, don’t you think?”

Âyihsai returned his smile. “Definitely.”

Zavahier moved amongst the corpses, searching their pockets for anything that he might one day find useful; he claimed a handful of credit chips, and several stolen code cylinders and access cards. “It looks like they had access to several places they shouldn’t have,” he said as he recovered an Imperial Intelligence access card from the last man he’d killed.

“I don’t get it. Why were they going to blow up _this_ part of the city, when they could get almost anywhere?” Âyihsai asked.

“I don’t know. That’s troubling,” Zavahier agreed. “But if they’re all _dead_, there’s nothing they can do. So whatever their ultimate plan was, we’ve put a stop to it.” Still, he was a little uneasy, because this felt _too_ simple. Finding and killing a dozen spies, who were making a second attempt at a bombing that had already failed once, just seemed too easy. “I feel like we’re missing something, though. Like…”

“Like this was just one cell?” Âyihsai finished the thought for him.

“Yes. There must be others,” Zavahier said with a nod. “I’m going to call Caider and Janzem, and see what they’ve found out. The more information we have, the easier it will be to figure out what to do next.”

He pulled out his holocomm and initiated a call to Caider. It was almost fifteen seconds before the call was answered, and a few seconds more as Âyihsai and Janzem connected their holocomms as well, creating a four-way conversation.

“We were just about to call you guys—” Caider said.

“We found an old warehouse _full_ of Republic agents!” Janzem interrupted.

“Yeah, what he said,” Caider said with a bite of irritation in his voice. “Anyway, they’ve got quite a large operation going on here.”

“Caider was all for charging in and killing them all, but I said we should call you first,” Janzem said, interrupting a second time, and prompting a grunt of annoyance from Caider.

Zavahier smiled to himself, looking away from the holograms for a moment as he concealed his pleasure. Rather than following Caider’s lead, Janzem was deferring to _him_ for guidance. Hunting the spies had been his idea, of course, so naturally leadership should fall to him, but actually asserting his leadership over his fellow apprentices was satisfying nonetheless. It proved he wasn’t just _any_ Sith, but one that was strong enough to command others.

“How many of them are there?” Zavahier asked.

“I counted about fifty,” Caider replied. “I reckon Janzem and I could take them out easily enough.”

“Don’t. Not yet, anyway,” Zavahier said. “Do they seem well-organised?”

“Yeah, actually…” Caider said.

“Just as I thought,” Zavahier said. “I have a theory. Give us your coordinates, and Âyihsai and I will come to you. We need to do this properly.”

Caider looked a little annoyed at being told to hold back, but he couldn’t really refuse when Zavahier made it so clear that he wanted to handle the situation with a bit more subtlety. “Just hurry up, will you?”

“We’ll be there soon,” Zavahier promised, and once Caider had transmitted his coordinates, he ended the holocall.

After being silent throughout the whole conversation, Âyihsai spoke only after the holocall had ended. “So now we _know_ there is more than one cell.”

“That’s why I want to take some of them alive,” Zavahier said.


	29. Special Treatment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier lands himself and his friends into trouble.

It didn’t take long for Zavahier and Âyihsai to rendezvous with Caider and Janzem. The two apprentices were waiting in the shadows around the side of the warehouse, and from there, they climbed up a stack of crates so they could look in through one of the building’s high windows, unseen by the Republic agents within. As Caider had said, they were indeed well-organised, having turned what had been a disused warehouse – abandoned due to its lack of proximity to the roads that brought supplies to and from the spaceport – and turned it into a bustling hive of activity. Crates of stolen weapons and tools were stacked along one wall, and an open area had become a firing range, which was being used to train slaves in how to use a blaster. Nearby were a group of technicians that were working on deactivating the slaves’ collars.

“They’re building a whole revolution in there,” Âyihsai said quietly. “Turning the Empire’s slaves into weapons for the Republic. Was that your theory, Ezerdus?”

“Yes, pretty much,” Zavahier said. “Âyihsai and I killed a group of spies who were disguised as slaves, so it was obvious that the Republic agents were using the slaves to achieve their goals. I saw something similar on Korriban. There was a Jedi helping the slaves rebel.”

“Why bother?” Caider asked. “Slaves are—”

Zavahier silenced him with a fierce look. “Because the Empire _always_ underestimates slaves. And the Republic wants to destroy us, so they’ll use anything they can get their claws into against us, including our own slaves.” He paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing as a realisation dawned: the Republic saw the slaves as every bit as disposable as the Empire did. A weapon to be used and discarded. But he said nothing of this to Caider, Âyihsai and Janzem. Instead, he said, “That’s also why I didn’t want you to kill them until we got here.”

“Not feeling _merciful_ are you, Ez?” Caider asked.

“Of course not. We _are_ going to kill them all. I just want some for interrogation first. They’ll be able to tell us about _all_ the Republic’s plans for Dromund Kaas. All the other bombings, slave rebellions, anything else they’re plotting,” Zavahier said, and after a few moments of watching the Republic spies and their newly recruited slaves, he decided on his targets. “I want that man – the one dressed as an admiral – and that slave helping to train the others. And anybody else who looks like they know what’s going on. All the rest can be disposed of. Be as violent as you like.”

“We don’t need your permission for that, you know,” Caider said. “Ây, you go with Jan and storm the side entrance, while Ez and I go in the front. Make sure nobody escapes.”

Although inclined to be irritated with Caider’s attempt to give orders, the instructions _were_ close enough to what Zavahier had already had in mind that he chose not to overrule them. That would just seem petty, and regardless of whether Caider managed to give a few orders, it didn’t change the fact that this was still _Zavahier’s_ operation. When Caider told them what to do, Âyihsai and Janzem still looked to Zavahier for confirmation.

“What he said,” Zavahier said with a nod. Given the choice, he would have preferred to take Âyihsai with him, and send Caider with Janzem again. But maybe it was better this way. It would give him the chance to see what Caider was capable of… and perhaps to see if he could find a way of _controlling_ him. To get Caider to follow him just like Âyihsai and Janzem did. It would be harder; Caider was bossy, and his master outranked Lord Zash.

A challenge, then!

One way for another, he would convince Caider to obey and follow him.

Zavahier leaped down from the pile of crates, and landed lightly in a crouched position, before rising to his feet. He was followed by Caider, Âyihsai and Janzem; they looked at each other, nodded, and then separated. Âyihsai and Janzem went in one direction, moving around the side of the warehouse in order to reach the side entrance. Zavahier went the other way, and Caider hurried to walk by his side, their shoulders bumping as Caider sought to take the lead.

“Fine, you go in first,” Zavahier said, allowing Caider to go ahead of him. “I could use a meat shield when the Republic starts shooting.”

“Well, it’s not like you’ll be able to break down the door, is it? You’re tiny,” Caider pointed out. And to illustrate his point, he charged at the door, slamming into it with his shoulder, and enhancing his charge with a thrust of Force power. The metal buckled, and then collapsed into the building, creating an entrance.

“I don’t need to use my body as a battering ram,” Zavahier said, and he reached out with the Force, tearing at the opening Caider had created, widening it further. “See? Now come on. We have spies to kill.”

“Show off,” Caider remarked as he stepped into the warehouse

“Oh, yes, and ramming the door _wasn’t_ showing off?” Zavahier asked, following the other apprentice inside.

There was no opportunity for further conversation. Zavahier and Caider’s rather dramatic and violent entrance provoked an immediate reaction from the Republic spies and the slaves they had recruited. Some turned blasters on the invading Sith, while others turned to flee. But just as they reached the smaller side entrance, they were blocked by Âyihsai and Janzem, who broke through the door and attacked those trying to escape.

Caider charged into the group of spies without hesitation, slashing at them with both of his lightsabres, while Zavahier hung back, blasting them with lightning and ripping them apart with his magic. At the other end of the warehouse, Âyihsai and Janzem followed suit, and the result was that the Republic agents and liberated slaves were penned between them, unable to escape, and not easily able to defend themselves either. Turning to attack one pair of Sith left them open to being stabbed in the back.

It should have been a massacre.

It _w__ould_ have been.

But only half a minute after the fight began, Imperial forces poured in through the two entrances, and the troopers surrounded both the surviving Republic agents _and_ the Sith apprentices, blasters held ready to fire. The spies immediately surrendered; between the choice of death by Sith and submitting to regular soldiers, the choice was clear.

With a glance at Caider – and a moment of silent communication – Zavahier shifted his position so that their backs were pressed together, and they both moved away from the spies. A short distance away, Âyihsai and Janzem did the same, moving into a more defensive position.

“Everyone put their weapons down!” an entirely too familiar voice called out. A moment later Mezzeni weaved through the troopers.

It was a completely pointless command, really. The spies were already laying down their weapons. The troopers knew the order wasn’t directed at them. And no self-respecting Sith would _ever_ lower their lightsabre when ordered to do so in such a manner. As long as there were soldiers pointing blaster rifles at him, Zavahier’s lightsabre was staying in his hand, and he sensed the same resolution in his friends. Zavahier began inching towards Âyihsai and Janzem, trusting Caider to do the same, until they came together in a defensive circle.

“I should have known I’d find you here. Do you realise what you’ve done?” Mezzeni asked as she fixed Zavahier with an angry glare.

“Well, I _was_ dealing with a threat to the Empire,” Zavahier said. “I didn’t realise killing Republic spies and rebel slaves was suddenly a crime.”

“No, you _idiot_. You’ve ruined an Intelligence operation that’s been in motion for _weeks_,” Mezzeni snapped.

“Oh,” Zavahier said, as the realisation dawned that what had _appeared_ to be inaction on Intelligence’s part had in fact been part of a larger project to locate the spies, and perhaps to draw them into a trap. He’d seen part of the truth - the threat the Republic spies posed - but hadn’t followed the facts through to the logical conclusion. He lowered and deactivated his lightsabre; _he_ was the one in the wrong here, and he knew it.

“I told you so,” Caider said.

“Yes, very helpful, Caider,” Zavahier said. He didn’t need anybody _telling_ him that he’d made a mistake. “I’d figured that out for myself, funnily enough.”

There was a period of confusion as Mezzeni contacted her superior – a young woman simply called Watcher Two – to report the situation, while the troopers rounded up the captured spies. Watcher Two in turn contacted _her_ superior, and within an hour, Zavahier, Caider, Âyihsai and Janzem were standing in a room in Imperial Intelligence with Mezzeni and Watcher Two, waiting in a rather awkward silence. Eventually the door opened, and four Sith entered the room – Lord Zash, and three others that Zavahier assumed to be his friends’ masters; Darth Arctis, Darth Veddin and Lord Izali – followed by a balding man, Watcher Two’s superior. None of them looked particularly pleased to have been woken in the middle of the night to deal with their apprentices, and the disappointed look Zash gave him was enough to make Zavahier duck his head.

“Explain yourselves,” the oldest of the four Sith said in a deep, threatening voice.

“My lord, we—” Caider began.

“It was my fault,” Zavahier interrupted.

“Ez, you don’t have to—” Caider said.

“Yes, I do,” Zavahier said, cutting Caider off a second time. He glanced at Zash for a moment, but was still unable to meet her gaze, so instead he focused on the oldest Sith, who he guessed to be Darth Arctis. Caider’s master. “It was _my_ idea to go looking for the Republic spies.”

“You allowed yourself to be ordered around by a _slave_?” Darth Veddin asked Âyihsai incredulously.

“I’m _not_ a slave!” Zavahier snarled, the air around him crackling with lightning.

“He didn’t order me to do anything,” Âyihsai said, speaking at the same time, but only barely audible beneath Zavahier’s more heated response.

“Calm yourself, apprentice,” Zash said admonishingly. “We’re willing to listen, but you have to explain yourself clearly.”

The other three Sith didn’t _look_ particularly willing to listen, so Zavahier tried to ignore them, and forced himself to just look at Zash as he began to explain the events of the night. He described how he and the others had talked about what seemed to be a Republic threat within the city, and that he had suggested doing something about it.

“Because Kaas City is our home. If we’re not going to defend it, who will?” he asked.

“Well, Imperial Intelligence, for starters,” Mezzeni remarked coolly.

“Silence!” Arctis snarled, striking her with a bolt of blue lightning. “Know your place, agent. And you, slave, speak.”

After shooting Mezzeni a dark look, Zavahier continued his story, before finishing with: “So, you see, this wasn’t sport, or a mindless killing spree. We – that is, Âyihsai and I – found some Republic agents trying to plant bombs in Ergast’s Plaza, so we stopped them.”

“Keeper, Cipher Eleven was infiltrating that group. We recovered his body from Ergast’s Plaza,” Watcher Two informed the bald man.

Zavahier suddenly remembered the man who’d tried to get him to stop the attack. The one that he’d thrown aside so easily without even really listening to what the man had been trying to say. The one with an Imperial Intelligence access card in his pocket. But now he realised what the man’s words had meant: that he wasn’t an enemy of the Empire, but was in fact an undercover operative. And Zavahier had killed him. He hesitated for a moment, considering his options, before settling on honesty. “I… I think I killed him,” he said. “I didn’t think—”

“Yes, that is abundantly clear,” Darth Arctis said.

“Go on, Ezerdus. Continue,” Zash urged him.

“I worked out that the Republic spies must be hiding amongst the slaves working in the expansion district,” Zavahier said.

“That is consistent with the information provided by Cipher Eleven and Fixer Fourteen,” Watcher Two said.

“See, I knew I was right!” Zavahier said to Âyihsai, and received a disapproving glare from Darth Arctis for his efforts. Declarations of being in the right probably weren’t helping right now. So he continued with the rest of the story, describing how he had gone to meet Caider and Janzem outside the warehouse, and how he had decided to attack the Republic agents with the intention of ending the threat they posed to Kaas City.

“I was going to meet with Fixer Fourteen in the warehouse, but when I realised these Sith were charging in to murder everybody, I called on the Third Infantry Division to assist me,” Mezzeni said, adding her part of the story. “If we hadn’t intervened, they would have killed everyone.”

“That’s not true. I had already decided we would take some prisoners for interrogation,” Zavahier argued.

“And we _all_ agreed to do it,” Âyihsai added. “It might have been Ezerdus’ idea, but we all entered into this willingly.”

Caider raised his hand. “For the record, I said we shouldn’t do it.”

“You still ruined an important Intelligence operation. Without your interference, we would have discovered every Republic spy on Dromund Kaas,” Mezzeni said.

“I doubt it,” Zavahier replied. “Without me, still more spies would have destroyed the Citadel last week. Without Âyihsai, Ergast’s Plaza would have been blown up two days ago. Without Caider, Republic spies would have infiltrated the Imperial Reclamation Service. _We_ are the ones keeping this city safe.”

“You arrogant child,” Mezzeni said in a cold voice. “Your recklessness and impatience may well have cost more lives than you’ve saved. All the remaining Republic agents will now go even deeper into hiding because of your actions.”

“Well, at least I was doing something!” Zavahier snapped.

“Enough bickering!” Arctis said, taking hold of both of them with the Force, lifting them into the air and squeezing their throats. “You are _both_ children. It’s clear to me that this is simply a matter of some well-meaning young apprentices getting carried away in performing their duties to the Empire. I think we can forgo the executions this time, but in future, if you get any more wild ideas, I suggest you take them to your respective masters instead of acting on them.”

Arctis released Zavahier and Mezzeni, allowing them to drop to the floor, gasping for breath. And despite this discipline from Arctis, Zavahier still found the strength to glare at Mezzeni. She _deserved_ the humiliation of being choked. He had not. Not when he’d been trying to do the right thing, and Mezzeni had _no_ right to insult him.

“I trust this will suffice, Keeper?” Arctis asked.

“Yes, my lord,” the bald man said, perhaps more because there really was no other acceptable response than because he was genuinely satisfied with the outcome. The look on Mezzeni’s face – one of utter revulsion – said it all, really: Imperial Intelligence was used to Sith creating chaos wherever they went, and Intelligence was left to pick up the pieces. “We will do what we can to salvage the operation.”

“I will speak to Darth Jadus to ensure he knows Imperial Intelligence is not at fault, and that the matter has been handled,” Arctis said. “Veddin, Izali, Zash, I expect you to punish your apprentices appropriately, as I will punish mine.”

Caider flinched at those words, and Zavahier gave him an apologetic look. It didn’t seem fair, really. Caider had been the most reluctant to get involved in the first place.

“Darth Arctis?” Zavahier asked. No power in the galaxy could have pressed him to call the man ‘my lord’ or ‘sir’. “It’s not Caider’s fault. He was the one who said Intelligence would be dealing with the spies. He shouldn’t be punished. Nor should Âyihsai and Janzem. All of this happened because of me.”

“No, slave,” Arctis said firmly. “You may have led them into trouble, but they chose to follow you. The blame is shared.”

“Come, Ezerdus, I would speak with you in private,” Zash said, moving forward and taking hold of his arm to escort him out of the room.

Zavahier had little choice but to follow his master, though he looked back over his shoulder at Âyihsai, and saw the same sympathetic look in her eyes that he had given to Caider just moments before. But Zash pulled him onwards, walking swiftly out of Intelligence Headquarters, along the front of the Citadel, and into the Sith Sanctum. Zavahier didn’t dare to say anything to her, and by the time they reached Zash’s office, he was expecting a harsh punishment for his actions.

Zash closed the door behind them, and went to sit at her desk, folding her arms across her chest. “Well?”

Zavahier wasn’t entirely sure what to say, so he settled for, “I’ve disappointed you.”

There was a long, _long_ silence, while Zash watched him intently, trying to meet his gaze, but he kept looking away from her. He _expected_ pain. That was what his life had always been like; he angered his ‘betters’, and they hurt him for it. And Zash had proven that although she was reluctant to cause him pain, she would nevertheless do it when she needed to.

But no punishment seemed to be forthcoming. Eventually, Zash spoke, and her voice was calm, but firm. “I really ought to be angry with you, Ezerdus. I _am_ angry. We have a plan to kill Skotia, and it requires you to be alive. You could have ruined everything.”

“I know,” Zavahier said.

“And this might affect our plans for Skotia. People may not believe that an apprentice can kill him, but they _will_ believe that you’re reckless enough to try,” Zash said.

“At least they’ll _also _believe that you’re not involved,” Zavahier suggested. The whole point of the plan was to make it clear that Zash wasn’t making an obvious attempt to get rid of Skotia, and an apprentice with a reputation for acting on his own would help to ensure that.

“Instead, they will believe that I’m unable to exert any control over you,” Zash said. “A complaint that’s been made about you once already. Among some of the more… traditional Sith, it’s been said that freedom has gone to your head.”

“I’m sorry,” Zavahier said quietly.

Zash’s expression softened, and a small smile spread across her face. “I’m proud of you, Zel-Ezerdus.”

Zavahier blinked in surprise. That _really _wasn’t what he’d been expecting to hear. “Erm… why?” he asked uncertainly.

“You convinced three other apprentices – two of them high-born – to follow your orders,” Zash said.

“I didn’t do anything that special,” Zavahier said dismissively. It didn’t feel like anything special. Âyihsai could be persuaded with logic. Getting Janzem to do what he wanted was simply a matter of appealing to the Twi’lek’s desire for fun and excitement. Caider was more difficult, but only because he saw himself as a leader… but he was not a very good one, so all Zavahier needed to do was be _better_, and Caider had no choice but to go along with it.

“Oh, but you did, Zel-Ezerdus. It’s no small feat, bringing other Sith under your control. It says much about your future in the Order, regardless of what the staunch traditionalists say,” Zash insisted. “But more than that, your actions in pursuing the Republic spies was selfless, for the benefit of the Empire. Convincing other Sith to go along with _that_ is impressive.”

“Well, now that you mention it…” Zavahier said, smiling slightly. When Zash put it like that, it did seem like a more impressive achievement.

Zash’s smile broadened. “There you go. That’s more like it. You did something very special,” she told him. “Although I have reservations about your selfless behaviour. It will make you seem weak.”

“I know,” Zavahier replied. “But any mindless brute can command obedience through fear. If I do something… selfless every now and then, that sets me apart from the fools. Those beneath me should fear me, but they should respect me too, and that requires… something more than simple violence. And it’s not just that. When I do something nice for the Empire, maybe other Sith will think me weak, but everybody else will appreciate it. I can win the loyalty of the military that way.”

“My, my, you’re becoming quite the cunning Sith, aren’t you?” Zash asked with a chuckle. “Just be careful. And now… Darth Arctis commanded me to punish you for interfering with Intelligence’s plans, and I can’t disobey him.”

That hint of a smile that had crossed Zavahier’s face faded. “Of course,” he said dully.

“You’re going to run an errand for me,” Zash said. “One that will move us another step forward in our plan to deal with Skotia. But nobody else needs to know _that_.”

“What do you need me to do?” Zavahier asked.

“Skotia’s greatest weakness is that he’s mostly machine. The rogue Sith Lord Grathan is holding a cyborg expert named Dorotsech captive. He has developed a neutraliser for me, the kind that should destroy Skotia’s cyborg elements,” Zash said. “Your task is to find Dorotsech, get him to tell you where the neutraliser is, and then silence him.”

“You want me to kill him,” Zavahier said, understanding the meaning behind her words.

“Whatever it takes,” Zash said with a shrug. She reached into her desk and retrieved her datapad, which she used to transmit the relevant information into Zavahier’s datapad. “These are the coordinates to Grathan’s estate in the jungle. Find the scientist, interrogate him, and retrieve the neutraliser. And feel free to take on Grathan and his army if you feel so inclined. It will look good to Arctis and the rest of the Dark Council. With any luck, Skotia will soon be out of our way. And then we’ll be free to pursue Tulak Hord’s lost power as we please.”

Well, that didn’t sound too bad, did it?

“This… really doesn’t seem like much of a punishment,” Zavahier remarked drily.

“As far as Arctis is concerned, it _is_,” Zash said. “Officially, you are being sent to help deal with that nuisance, Lord Grathan. A service to the Empire, to make up for getting in the way of Intelligence’s investigation. And it will take you out of the city for a while, and by the time you return, this whole mess will have died down.”

“Will it?” Zavahier asked, finding it rather doubtful that the people who were determined to hate him would forget that just because he left Kaas City for a week or two.

“There’s a new crisis every week. Trust me, it’ll all be forgotten by the time you get back,” Zash assured him. “Now, off you go, Zel-Ezerdus. Get some rest, tell your friends you’re being punished, and then…”

“Go and have some fun?” Zavahier asked.

Zash laughed. “Precisely, my dear apprentice.”

Zavahier left Zash’s office, and as he made his way out of the Citadel, he considered the events of the evening. He’d got himself and his friends into trouble… and yet the kind of interference that would have gotten any typical Imperial officer executed, had received little more than a few harsh words from Darth Arctis, and no _real_ punishment at all from Zash. He knew what it was, of course: special treatment. He just wasn’t used to being the recipient of it.

Yet that was the nature of being Sith, wasn’t it?

Life wasn’t fair.

Sometimes that meant being hurt or mistreated.

Sometimes it meant not being punished for a mistake that would have earned anybody else a death sentence.

And when Zavahier reached his apartment building, where Caider, Âyihsai and Janzem were waiting for him in the lobby, he realised that he really had been rather lucky. Caider was a little shaken and unhappy, a small cut on his cheek, while Janzem was soaked in sweat and looked as though he’d been repeatedly smashed into a wall. Only Âyihsai had come away from her master unscathed.

“You alright, Ezerdus?” Âyihsai asked as Zavahier paused at the entrance of the lobby, uncertain if the other three apprentices would even want anything more to do with him.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Zavahier said, and then, after a moment, he added, “I’m really sorry.”

Caider frowned at those words. “What kind of Sith are you?”

“The kind that didn’t want this to happen,” Zavahier replied.

“He had no way of knowing—” Âyihsai began.

“Yes he did! I _told_ you!” Caider snapped. “Janzem’s lucky to be alive, and Arctis has revoked my privileges until I can be ‘trusted not to make any more foolish decisions’!”

Zavahier looked down at the floor. “I’m sorry.”

“Just shut up,” Caider said, and he turned away to get into the elevator to return to his apartment.

Janzem was silent for several moments, and then opened his mouth as if to speak, before closing it again. Without saying a word, he followed Caider into the elevator. Zavahier looked at Âyihsai, expecting her to follow suit, but she remained where she was, silent until the elevator door closed.

“They don’t blame you,” Âyihsai said after a moment. “Not really. They’re hurt and angry, but they’ll get over it.”

“But they’re right,” Zavahier said. “They’re my friends, and they got hurt because of _me_. And you know what? Zash didn’t punish me. She was _proud_ of me.”

“Veddin didn’t punish me either,” Âyihsai said.

Zavahier blinked in surprise. Veddin had seemed angry enough that Âyihsai had chosen to follow a former slave. “But he—”

“He had to, while Arctis, Izali and Zash were around to hear. But once we got to his office… he said there are worse things than working with a Sith who can think about more than just himself,” Âyihsai said. “And I agree with him. You’re more than a former slave, and you’re more than just another Sith.”

It took a moment to realise that Âyihsai was complimenting him. But then Zavahier smiled slightly. “I… won’t be around for a while. Zash is sending me to help deal with that Lord Grathan fellow. My ‘punishment’ for getting Caider and Janzem into trouble is a nice, fun adventure in the jungle and the chance to kill a rogue Sith Lord. But I suppose if I’m gone for a few weeks, that will give Caider and Janzem a chance to recover. But… I’ll miss you.”

He wasn’t really expecting anything to come of those last words, and so he was genuinely surprised when Âyihsai reached out to take his hand. She held it for a moment, pressing a small piece of cool metal into his hand, and then leaned forward and whispered into his ear, “We don’t have to be apart for that long. Go to the coordinates embedded in that token, and you might find something you’re missing. Something… more.”

Then she kissed him lightly on the cheek, and then swept away, leaving Zavahier feeling more than a little confused, warmth rising to his cheeks… but he wasn’t at all displeased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congrats to all the readers who knew what would happen!


	30. The Joy Of Killing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier makes a new friend for the journey to Lord Grathan's estate.

Lord Grathan’s estate was a fair distance from Kaas City. Zavahier determined that by studying maps in the computer database, and after establishing that it was an even longer journey than the one that had taken him to the Unfinished Colossus, he had made similar preparations; enough supplies for several weeks, and most of his last remaining credits on hiring Marquess again. The beastmaster at the stables seemed genuinely pleased that Zavahier chose the half-blind Dewback a second time, and even offered to sell her to him… A lack of sufficient finances had forced Zavahier to regretfully decline the offer. “But if I ever get enough credits, I will do so,” he had said, while not believing for a moment that he would ever be able to afford it. He still owed the stables for the construction of a pen suitable for Shâsot.

It was frustrating, really, because although his basic needs were taken care of – an apartment paid for by Zash, and easy access to food and basic medical care provided by the Empire – Zavahier was constantly reminded of the fact that his fellow Sith were a lot wealthier than him. Even Janzem, despite the fact that he wasn’t human; the Twi’lek had been a smuggler prior to Lord Izali discovering his Force-sensitivity, and had considerable credits to fund his Sith lifestyle.

After being taught that being Sith meant having the freedom to do whatever he wanted, Zavahier found the constraints of his poverty rather irritating. He may not have ever had much to his name, but a part of him wanted what the other apprentices had. He wanted to be able to buy Shâsot everything the Tuk’ata could ever want. He wanted to purchase a Dewback without having to even worry about whether he could afford it. He wanted to furnish his home with _nice_ furniture. Credits ought to mean _nothing_ to a Sith.

Well, he knew the answer, didn’t he?

If he wanted more, he had to be willing to _take it_.

He was free, and he had power. All he needed to do was seize opportunities as they arose.

And in the meantime, his frustration would empower him.

“And one day, I’ll buy you, and then you’ll know you’re always wanted,” he said, patting Marquess’ shoulder as he led her out of the stables.

“You really like that one, huh?” a Zabrak woman asked. “Not something you see in a Sith very often.”

“I’m no ordinary Sith.” Zavahier considered the woman who had chosen to eavesdrop on the words intended solely for Marquess’ ears. Her skin was striped red and black, and small horns poked out from her sleek black hair. She wore the kind of heavy armour Zavahier associated with the Mandalorians, and she was leading a charcoal grey Dewback out of the stables.

“I guess not,” the Zabrak said. “Which way you headed?”

“Lord Grathan’s estate,” Zavahier said, regarding her suspiciously.

“Great, so am I. Name’s Sulis. Fancy some company on the road?” she asked.

Zavahier considered the offer. Khem was still excavating that archaeological site, and neither Shâsot nor Marquess could talk, so the journey promised to be a fairly lonely one. Yet did he want the company of a lowly bounty hunter?

Well…

He was hardly one to be fussy about the company he kept – as long as she wasn’t looking down on him, of course – and it would take several days to reach Lord Grathan’s estate. Zavahier certainly didn’t _need_ her. He could handle the inevitable attacks from the local wildlife just fine on his own. But if Sulis was truly going to the same destination, they would be travelling on the same road anyway, and potentially getting in each other’s way. Much better to just agree to travel together, and be done with it.

“Alright. My name is Zel-Ezerdus,” he said, taking pleasure in his first opportunity to introduce himself with his new title. Felt rather good, didn’t it?

“That’s one hell of a name,” Sulis replied with a snort. “Do I shorten that to Zel, or what?”

Oh, this was going to be a fun trip, wasn’t it?

“Ezerdus is fine. Zel is a title,” he said.

“Huh, fancy that. What’s it mean?” Sulis asked as she mounted her Dewback.

“’Zel’ means I have an aptitude for Sith magic,” Zavahier explained, climbing up onto Marquess’ back and making himself comfortable in the saddle, before nudging her into a walk. “Come, Shâsot,” he added.

Shâsot gave a little snort, looking for a moment like he would refuse to follow the command, before beginning to follow. He clearly hadn’t liked being left in the stables. Zavahier actually felt rather guilty about doing so, after he had sworn never to cage the Tuk’ata again. But he also knew that it just wasn’t possible to keep Shâsot in his apartment anymore; he was too destructive, too easily bored when not given the opportunity to hunt, and in the last few weeks, had put on a significant growth spurt as well. Now his back came up to Zavahier’s chest; it wouldn’t be long before he was large enough to ride. And Zavahier could sense that the only reason Shâsot obeyed him was because it was better than staying in the stables.

Sulis set her Dewback to walking too, and he lumbered forward, fairly quickly until he came alongside Marquess, and then he matched her pace. “I’m afraid I don’t really know much about you Sith. Aside from the whole death and killing thing,” Sulis commented.

“That’s fair. I don’t really know anything about Mandalorians either. Apart from the whole death and killing thing,” Zavahier replied.

Sulis chuckled. “I’m no Mandalorian. I’m just here for the Great Hunt, but I’m an independent hunter, not associated with one of the clans.”

“So what is the ‘Great Hunt’?” Zavahier asked, now genuinely interested.

“It’s a bounty hunting competition. It’s not just for sport, though. It’s a test of skill to find the best bounty hunters in the galaxy. Normally only Mandalorians are allowed to enter. I had to get a special sponsorship from Nem’ro the Hutt just to be able to _try_ to compete,” Sulis said. “But there’s some people that think I don’t have a right to be here at all, just because I’m not a Mandalorian.”

“That sounds rather familiar,” Zavahier said, and when Sulis gave him a questioning look, he explained. “I used to be a slave, but I was freed because I could use the Force. The belief that I’m not worthy of being Sith is rather prevalent amongst the other Sith.”

“Huh, I guess we got a lot in common then,” Sulis said. “We outcasts gotta stick together, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I suppose we should,” Zavahier agreed, very much appreciating the fact that he seemed to have found something of a kindred spirit in Sulis; someone who knew what it was like to have to fight for everything she wanted, and to be seen as ‘lesser’ because of circumstances beyond her control.

They chatted as they rode out of the city and into the wilderness, exchanging stories of previous victories; and as it turned out, a talented bounty hunter had just as many interesting tales of past exploits as a Sith did. Zavahier had always assumed that nobody who wasn’t Sith could have adventures anywhere _near_ as exciting as his own, and that only those who were Force-sensitive could _really_ fight. But Sulis’ time on Hutta had been just as dangerous as the months he’d spent on Korriban; while he had been fighting K’lor’slugs, Tuk’ata and Sith acolytes, she had fought criminals, Chemlizards, and Evocii, the original natives of Hutta that had been enslaved by the Hutts.

It seemed that the Empire wasn’t the only place where slave rebellions were a problem.

Well, that certainly didn’t surprise Zavahier.

“Why it consistently surprises everybody that slaves rebel is something I will never understand,” he said aloud to Sulis.

“You’re not wrong,” Sulis agreed. “The Hutts were so… offended that the Evocii want their planet back. Like it’s the Evocii that are at fault because they traded away their whole planet for little more than trinkets.” She paused for a moment. “Though, now I phrase it like _that_…”

“It does seem a little foolish,” Zavahier agreed.

“Heh. You’ll like this, though. The leader of the rebellion was this Evocii called ‘Huttsbane’ – you can guess why – and Nem’ro wanted him dead,” Sulis said. “The thing is, Hutts can’t really tell the difference between one Evocii and another, so I took the head of some random dead Evocii and gave _that_ to Nem’ro, and Huttsbane is still out there, plotting ways to kill more Hutts.”

“I think I’d like to kill a Hutt one day,” Zavahier said thoughtfully. He’d never actually _seen_ a Hutt, of course, but he’d heard descriptions of them from other slaves, ones who had been owned by a Hutt prior to being sold to Rawste. He knew roughly what they looked like, what they were. So exactly what would happen if he stabbed a huge, slimy gastropod with his lightsabre? Or hit one with lightning, for that matter? And how would something with no bones respond to _Lasusutakmuo_?

That last option!

A crushing spell was _exactly _the right way to kill a Hutt.

“Correction: I _really_ want to kill a Hutt one day,” he said, trying – and failing – to repress a chuckle just at the _thought_ of what would happen. “I just thought of the _perfect_ way to do it.”

“Ooh, do tell!” Sulis said eagerly.

“There is a spell called _Lasusutakmuo_. It translates as ‘dropping stone’, and it… well it doesn’t create a _real_ rock, as such, but it… sort of behaves like one…” Zavahier began, stumbling a little over the explanation of how the spell worked. Trying to make a non-Sith understand Sith magic was often an effort in futility.

“Yeah, I get the picture,” Sulis said, nodding appreciatively. “You ever get the chance to squish one of those slugs, you take a holo for me, alright? Because seeing a Hutt squashed into goo has _got _to be hilarious.”

“I will,” Zavahier promised. “So, how would _you_ kill a Hutt, if you had the chance?”

“That’s easy. Flamethrower all the way,” Sulis said with a grin. “Hutts don’t really like the heat much. Though a grenade in the mouth has its charm. _Boom_!”

“That sounds like it would be kind of messy, though.”

“Oh, and splatting one with a giant Force rock _isn’t_?”

“Alright, so we’re _both_ going to get covered in Hutt guts,” Zavahier said, pausing to give thought to his other ideas. He wasn’t squeamish – far from it, given some of the things he’d done since becoming Sith – but he had to admit that getting covered in chunks of Hutt wouldn’t be all that pleasant. “What do you think lightning would do to a Hutt?”

“Well, they’re kind of oily and slippery, so I guess they’d conduct electricity pretty well,” Sulis said. “But I really don’t know.”

“That’s got to be worth an experiment, then. It seems as though we’re going to need a lot of Hutts, if we want to determine the best way to kill one,” Zavahier decided.

From here, Zavahier and Sulis spent much of the rest of the day coming up with increasingly elaborate plans for how they would use their respective abilities to kill members of various species. These were somewhat limited by Zavahier’s lack of familiarity with many of the aliens that lived beyond the Empire’s borders, and he had to rely on Sulis’ description in order to fuel his imagination. But he agreed with her that fire was the best way to deal with the incredibly hairy – and presumably flammable – Wookiees, Drall and Selonians.

Sulis seemed to have a rather… intense relationship with fire, opting for her flamethrower for virtually every species they discussed, excluding only the ones that were obviously not flammable. Though Zavahier could hardly criticise her for that, given how much he enjoyed his own lightning. Even as she laughed, joking about how he suggested Force lightning for virtually _every_ species she asked him about, Sulis conceded that lightning really was the funniest option when it came to aquatic species.

“Except when it’s a Zilkin, of course,” Sulis said.

“Another one I’ve never encountered,” Zavahier replied, and after all the other species Sulis had needed to describe for him, this time he didn’t even need to ask her to do the same for this one.

“Well, they’re amphibians, so you might want to say ‘lightning’ again, but get this: they’re about thirty centimetres tall, so _I_ propose just stepping on them,” Sulis said.

“Oh, come on, you’re just making it up now!” Zavahier said with a laugh.

“I am not!” Sulis argued. “Last year I was tracking a bounty on Nubia, and I got ambushed by a Republic patrol, and I swear to you, it was commanded by this tiny little Zilkin standing on the helmet of one of the soldiers.”

“So _did_ you step on it?” Zavahier asked.

“Damn right I did! I ran in, grabbed him right off the soldier’s helmet, threw him on the ground, and stomped him under my boot,” Sulis said.

“I might be tempted to let it run away… and then I can use it for target practice as it flees for cover,” Zavahier said, lifting his hand to mime sending bolts of lightning at a small, moving target.

“Alright, that’d be pretty funny too,” Sulis agreed. “Oh, hang on. What’s this?”

Zavahier followed her gaze to the small camp that had just become visible a little further up the road; a number of large tents formed a loose circle around the edge of a clearing, and the path he and Sulis had been following broadened into a muddy ring. There were a few Imperial officers, and some…

Things.

They were large, ungainly looking creatures, with broad, muscular bodies, thick arms and legs, and massive heads with long snouts that came almost down to the ground, while keeping their eyes roughly level with the humans around them. Zavahier would have thought them animals, if not for the elaborate robes and intricate jewellery they wore, proving that they were, in fact, sentient beings.

One of them caught him staring, so Zavahier quickly looked away, and instead turned his gaze to Sulis. “What are they?” he asked quietly.

“Chevin,” Sulis replied. “They’re smugglers and slavers. Probably here selling slaves to the Empire.”

“So how would you kill one?” Zavahier asked, dropping his voice as low as possible so that none of the hideous aliens could hear him.

Sulis responded with a snort of laughter, clearly amused by the fact that _this_ was what he asked first. “Flamethrower, of course,” she whispered back.

“Hmm… that hide looks pretty tough. Are you sure they’re not fire-proof?” Zavahier asked.

“No!” Sulis replied, before dissolving into giggles.

Which in turn made it impossible for Zavahier not to start snickering. Now several of the Chevin were giving them what could only be interpreted as dark, angry looks. Though their faces were too alien for Zavahier to be able to read much of their expressions, he could _feel_ the simmering anger radiating from them.

One of the human officers strode towards them, and _his_ anger was much easier to see on his face; he scowled up at them both. “Will you two keep it down?” he said fiercely, and gestured to one of the tents on the opposite side of the camp to the Chevin. “Over there. _Now_.”

Zavahier and Sulis looked at each other, their laughs fading away.

“We’d better do as he says,” Zavahier said. Of course, he _could _have ignored the order, since a lowly officer – a captain, judging by his rank insignias – didn’t have the authority to order a Sith around. But since it was entirely possible the Chevin would become violent, and… well, alright, it actually wouldn’t really bother him if he had to kill everyone in the camp, but it really _would_ be a waste of his time. So he dismounted Marquess and once Sulis had climbed down from her Dewback, they both joined the officer in the tent. “Alright, what exactly is your problem, captain…?” Zavahier asked him, trailing off in order to prompt an introduction.

“Guyvar. Captain Guyvar,” the officer said, and then he hesitated; the man couldn’t decide whether to risk speaking his mind to a Sith. “I’m sorry, my lord, but… the Chevin dignitaries are already a little prickly about the Chevin slaves we brought here for the Imperial Works Project 900316A. It’s a tense situation, and when a Sith starts laughing at them…”

“I wasn’t laughing at _them_,” Zavahier said, though he was well aware that the distinction was a rather cloudy one at best. “But I see your point.”

“What’s the ‘Imperial Works Project Nine-whatever’?” Sulis asked.

“It’s an ecological studies crew. My boys shoot up the local wildlife – anything with claws, pretty much – while the workers take plant samples and try not to get killed,” Guyvar said.

“Sounds exciting,” Sulis said.

“Well, maybe not for a Sith and a Mandalorian, but it’s been keeping us busy. At least until those dignitaries arrived, and now it’s all just a huge mess,” Guyvar said.

“I’m not a Mandalorian, actually…” Sulis muttered.

“So the dignitaries aren’t happy that the Empire enslaved the Chevin?” Zavahier asked, speaking over Sulis.

“Yeah, that’s about the size of it,” Guyvar confirmed with a nod. “There’s some people coming from the Imperial Diplomatic Service, hopefully they’ll sort it out.”

“Yes, I’m _sure_ that’ll help,” Zavahier said.

“Look, are we going the right way to Lord Grathan’s estate?” Sulis asked. “We’ll take our Chevin jokes and be on our way.”

“You are on the right path, yeah, but you’ll never reach the Wall before nightfall,” Guyvar replied. “We’ve got room. Feel free to stay the night… just stay away from the Chevin.”

“Such a welcoming invitation,” Zavahier said, before looking up at the sky. It was overcast – nothing out of the ordinary there – but there were still several hours before sunset. He turned to Sulis. “What do you think?”

“I reckon we can go a few more kilometres before it gets dark,” Sulis said.

“Looks like we’re leaving,” Zavahier told Guyvar. He turned and left the tent, and then stopped to look around, searching out Marquess; the Dewback had wandered a short distance in order to graze on the plants growing around the edge of the camp. Zavahier made his way towards her, and as he reached her, pulling her by the reins into a more open area so that he could mount, he attracted the attention of another officer.

Instead of introducing himself, however, the man just launched into an angry rant. “I used to be respected, you know. My word carried weight. One tiny mistake, and suddenly no one trusts me!”

It was clearly supposed to invite Zavahier to ask _what_ mistake the man had made. But he wasn’t going to be drawn into such a conversation.

“Did that guy literally just walk up to you and start yelling?” Sulis asked, riding towards him on her Dewback.

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Zavahier said. “I’ve been reliably informed that I do _not_ in fact have a sign saying ‘please yell at me’ attached to my robes, despite all evidence to the contrary. There’s just something about being Sith that makes people start shouting their problems at me. I probably ought to start killing them, and maybe word would get around…”

The officer took the hint. “Sorry, my lord, I’ve been in the jungle too long. Forgot my manners. I’m Captain Jeelg with Imperial Reconnaissance,” he said, introducing himself hurriedly, and then launched straight into the story that he so clearly wanted to tell. “My troops were acting strangely – plotting something. Obviously, they were traitors. All the warning signs were there.”

“Obviously,” Sulis remarked.

Zavahier gave a snort of laughter, which he quickly turned into a cough.

“The smart move was to kill them all. How could I know they were planning a surprise party for my promotion?” Jeelg continued, completely undeterred by Zavahier and Sulis’ clear amusement at his situation.

“You… killed all the troops under your command?” Zavahier asked, slightly disbelieving.

“I was under a lot of stress at the time! I’ve got my wits about me now,” Jeelg insisted.

“Yeah, that much is obvious,” Sulis said.

“Stop it, I’m trying not to laugh,” Zavahier told her. It really was getting quite hard to keep a straight face.

“My men did a good job of keeping me in the dark. Too good, the blasted idiots,” Jeelg said. “But you have to listen to me. This time, I’m not being paranoid. This time, I’ve identified a major threat to Imperial security. There are Kubaz spies all over the jungle, and they’re invisible.”

“Right, invisible Kubaz,” Zavahier said, with a great deal of scepticism, and his amusement with the situation completely vanished. Not only did the man have a history of paranoia, but Zavahier had gotten his friends into trouble chasing after suspected spies once already, and he was reluctant to take Sulis and charge off in search of more spies on the word of a man who probably wasn’t all that reliable… and who was, in fact, most likely insane.

“Actually, it’s plausible,” Sulis said after a moment. “Kubaz are excellent spies. Not sure about ‘invisible’, but they can go unnoticed when they really want to.”

“Exactly! Those long-snouted alien freaks spy for whoever pays them – but the Empire wouldn’t contract them for surveillance on Dromund Kaas,” Jeelg said.

“Alright, so how can these alleged Kubaz make themselves invisible?” Zavahier asked, deciding that although Jeelg couldn’t be taken seriously, Sulis probably could. So he would entertain this daft idea… for now.

“They must have powerful stealth field generators. You can only see them when lightning flashes disrupt them. If not for the electrical discharges in the atmosphere, I’d never have noticed them,” Jeelg said. “The Empire’s enemies are up to something. The Kubaz are here assessing our strengths and weaknesses for them. I just know it!”

“I don’t know…” Zavahier said.

Was this what he had sounded like to Caider last night?

Paranoid and completely insane?

And yet… Zavahier _was_ right about the Republic spies. They had genuinely existed, and his mistake had been restricted to believing that nobody else could see the threat.

“It can’t hurt to go looking for them, right?” Sulis suggested. “Go scout around a bit, see if we can find them. If we can’t, then we come back here and stay the night. If we _do_ find them, we see what works best to kill Kubaz: fire or lightning.”

“Yes! Scour the jungle, watch the lightning flashes and strike when you see a Kubaz! Kill the snouted scum and bring me proof,” Jeelg said encouragingly.

“Well, alright then,” Zavahier said.

“Come on, it’ll be fun!” Sulis said, grinning at him.

She dismounted her Dewback, and led the beast over to a tree to tether it. Zavahier did the same with Marquess, and together they set out into the jungle on foot, with Shâsot ranging a little way ahead of them. The Tuk’ata moved at an easy trotting pace, and then suddenly paused in his tracks, raising his head to sniff the air.

“What is it, Shâsot?” Zavahier asked as he caught up with the Tuk’ata.

Shâsot responded with a soft grunt, and set off again, turning right into a narrow ravine that cut between two sheer rock faces, following some kind of scent. That could mean he’d smelled something dead that he wanted to eat… or he’d found something more interesting.

“I think we should follow him,” Zavahier said, but it wasn’t solely Shâsot’s actions that led to this decision. His own senses told him this was where they needed to go. It wasn’t _quite_ a ripple in the Force, but merely the instinctive feeling that there was _something_ at the other end of the ravine that he needed to see.

“You think there’s something up there? The Kubaz?” Sulis asked.

“Perhaps. I’m not sure. But I sense… something,” Zavahier said. He began to follow Shâsot into the ravine, and remained alert to a potential ambush. Those high rocks would be the perfect place for an unseen enemy to drop down on them.

“Well, who am I to argue with the Force?” Sulis said as she moved to follow him.

Despite Zavahier’s suspicions, they were not ambushed as they made their way down the ravine, and soon it opened out into a large clearing surrounded on three sides by cliffs, and with a great canyon at the far side. The whole clearing was full of Sith ruins; several walls in various states of decay created the impression of what might once have been a temple, and there were a large number of crumbling statues and monuments. To Zavahier’s senses, the ruins vibrated with power, visible as wisps of dark smoke clinging to and swirling around the statues. The centre of the temple practically _glowed_ with dark energy.

“Well, I guess _this_ is what I was sensing,” Zavahier said, walking towards the ruins so that he could inspect them in greater detail.

“Makes me feel weird,” Sulis said slowly. “It’s like… I dunno how to describe it. Oppressive maybe?”

“Yes, this place is strong in the dark side,” Zavahier said, smiling slightly just because he could _feel_ the power in these ruins. “It must be ancient…” He pulled his datapad out of his pocket, and entered the ruins’ coordinates into his map of the area. They would be worthy of future investigation, since they looked relatively untouched – surprising given how close to the city they were, but they were far enough from the road that perhaps they had simply gone unnoticed. Ruins that hadn’t been excavated might hold valuable artefacts.

“You _like_ how it feels?” Sulis asked.

“It’s different if you’re Sith,” Zavahier said, trying to find an easy explanation, and completely failing to do so. The darkness felt perfectly natural and comfortable to him, with the power in the ruins resonating nicely with his own.

“I’ll take your word for it. Just proves you Sith are _weird_, though,” Sulis said, but she was smiling as she spoke.

“I can’t deny that,” Zavahier said drily. None of it was particularly strange to him anymore, but if he really thought about it, he could see how the Sith might seem weird to outsiders. “But—” he began, and cut himself off when a flash of lightning overhead briefly illuminated a figure creeping stealthily towards them. As soon as the lightning faded, so too did the outline of the person trying to sneak up on them. “Did you see that?”

“I did,” Sulis confirmed, reaching over her shoulder to draw the flamethrower slung across her back. “Where’d it go?”

“One moment…” Zavahier said, and he held out his hand, creating a ball of lightning in his palm, building it up into a great ball of purple light, before flinging it in the direction he’d seen the invisible creature. He missed – the blast of lightning struck the ground – but the flash of light it created was enough to make the Kubaz briefly visible. Sulis swung her flamethrower towards it, and released a stream of flames that enveloped the alien.

It fell to the ground, writhing in pain and making a great deal of noise, odd squeaking sounds that came from its long nose. They may have sounded strange, but Zavahier recognised screams of agony when he heard them.

“Well, I guess that proves the existence of the Kubaz,” Zavahier said as he watched the alien burn. “Odd looking thing, isn’t it?”

“And now we know how to make them visible. How much lightning you got?” Sulis asked.

“More than we could ever need,” Zavahier replied. He concentrated for a moment, and raised a protective bubble around himself and Sulis, and he called Shâsot to his side, shielding him as well. And then he closed his eyes, focusing on the emotions that gave him power. The air around him began to crackle with electricity, and then he sent it out in a great wave, filling the whole clearing with lightning. He opened his eyes so he could watch the bolts of lightning striking the ground in a hundred different places, each one showing the location of all the Kubaz near it.

Sulis turned her flamethrower on the closest Kubaz illuminated by Zavahier’s lightning, and then switched to a pair of blasters so she could shoot the ones further away. She paused when the lightning faded and the Kubaz disappeared from view.

But Zavahier was ready, and before Sulis even asked, he unleashed another burst of lightning, building on the atmospheric excitation created by his first wave, working on creating a storm within the bowl of the clearing. Soon bolts of lightning burst into the air without his input, providing a near constant interruption to the Kubaz stealth technology. The aliens flickered in and out of sight, never invisible long enough for them to truly hide.

“Yeah!” Sulis cried, firing wildly with both blasters at everything that moved.

“Hey, watch those ruins!” Zavahier said as several bolts struck the wall of the ancient temple. Yet his focus was more on the Kubaz, and he unleashed further bolts of lightning at them, enjoying the increased power that came to him thanks to the storm he had created. Even his own exhilaration contributed; though he was less vocal about it than Sulis, he was having just as much fun as she was as he blasted the Kubaz with his lightning.

In the face of this unrestrained carnage, it came as no surprise to Zavahier that Shâsot wasn’t content to remain by his side; the Tuk’ata charged into battle, biting and clawing at the Kubaz, and completely ignoring the sparks of Force lightning that struck him. He grabbed one Kubaz by the leg and shook his head, worrying the flesh with his teeth, before tearing the limb off completely and tossing it aside. The Kubaz let out a shrill squeal of pain and dropped to the ground. Shâsot pounced on it and bit its face, ripping off its long snout and devouring it.

Not wanting to be outdone by a beast, Sulis began firing small missiles from a launcher on her wrist, with each of the missiles exploding on impact. Mostly this resulted in the splattering of chunks of Kubaz across the clearing, but one missile struck the temple wall and it collapsed into a heap of rubble.

“Careful! I want this place intact!” Zavahier snapped, his pleasure in destruction warring with his desire to keep a place rich in Sith history mostly undamaged.

“Sorry,” Sulis replied, and she began taking more careful aim with her missiles, ensuring they were fired directly at the Kubaz.

The alien spies soon realised that by taking cover behind the temple walls and the statues, they could avoid further harm from Sulis’ missiles and blasters. But it wouldn’t save them from Zavahier and Shâsot. While the Tuk’ata began playing a game of Nexu and Sandmouse with them, stalking amongst the ruins and pinning the Kubaz beneath his paws when he found them, Zavahier played a game of his own, tearing into each Kubaz he found with the very spells he had practiced on the captured Republic spies.

It seemed rather fitting, didn’t it?

Zavahier cornered a Kubaz by the wall, and with a surge of vindictiveness and curiosity, he focused his power on the alien’s long nose and said, “_Nailijaskreotas!_”

Its squeaking voice was suddenly cut off as the spell took hold. It turned out that Kubaz did indeed have tongues inside those prehensile snouts, and this one now had a wriggling serpent in there instead. It reached up and put its fingers into the mouth that opened at the end of its snout, reaching for the snake and trying to pull it out, but it was unable to do so. The serpent’s tail was fused with the back of the Kubaz’s throat, completely impossible to remove with anything less than a knife…

Or if Zavahier ended the spell.

But why would he do that?

This was fascinating!

The Kubaz began to panic, clawing madly at its own snout as the snake writhed around inside it, while Zavahier just watched with amusement. This was even more fun than when he’d used this spell on a restrained prisoner.

“What… what the hell?” Sulis asked as she approached Zavahier, coming to stand next to him and watching the panicked Kubaz with her head tilted slightly to the side. “What did you _do_ to him?”

“I may have transformed his tongue into a snake,” Zavahier replied innocently.

“Wow,” Sulis said, momentarily stunned and looking a little horrified… which was saying something for someone who had been gleefully setting Kubaz on fire only moments previously. “I had no idea Sith could do that. Promise you won’t ever do that to me.”

Zavahier smiled at her. “I don’t hurt my friends.”

“Good to know. All the other Kubaz are dead,” Sulis informed him. “Shall we put this one out of his misery?”

“Alright, I suppose so,” Zavahier said, a little reluctantly. He was enjoying himself! Nevertheless, he quickly executed the Kubaz with a bolt of lightning to the heart, and then crouched next to it, searching its pockets for the proof Jeelg had requested. He found a holocomm with alien letters on the buttons rather than the more familiar Basic. He held the item up for Sulis. “Is that Kubaz writing?”

Sulis took the holocomm and studied it for a moment. “Can’t say for sure, but probably.”

“Good. Let’s gather a few more, and then Jeelg will have the proof he needs,” Zavahier said, getting up and moving on to another dead Kubaz. It didn’t take long for him and Sulis to gather a dozen holocomms, all bearing the Kubaz markings, and then, after a moment of consideration, Zavahier collected a few of the stealth generators as well.

And, for good measure, he used his lightsabre to decapitate one of the dead Kubaz, and added the thing’s head to the collection.

“Nothing proves the existence of Kubaz better than the head of a Kubaz,” he said.

“Huh, I like you,” Sulis said, laughing lightly.

All the evidence was placed in a bounty bag, of which Sulis carried a large number – “You never know when you need to collect proof of your work.” – and then they began to make their way back to the camp.

Just before they reached the camp, Zavahier paused, looking thoughtful. “Hey, Sulis? How good would you say those stealth generators are?”

“Uh, pretty good. Better than anything on the market, that I know of. The Kubaz don’t really share their tech,” Sulis replied. “Why do you ask?”

“What if – instead of giving them to Jeelg – we find a way to profit from them?” Zavahier suggested, as he recognised the opportunity that now presented itself to him. “It’s not like he’ll need them to prove to the Empire that the Kubaz were here.”

“That’s got potential. I can think of several organisations that’d pay well for them,” Sulis said.

“What kind of organisations?”

“Criminal gangs, weapons manufacturers, that kind of thing.”

“I’m not sure about selling them to enemies of the Empire…” Zavahier said, frowning as he considered the options.

“I’m not sure I like the Empire having tech that no one else does. But we don’t have to rush into anything. I’ll take them out of the bag, and we’ll just hold onto them until we decide the best thing to do with them,” Sulis agreed. She opened the bounty bag and removed the stealth generators, keeping half of them for herself and passing the others to Zavahier. “I’m sure we can come to an arrangement that suits both of us.”

“Agreed,” Zavahier said with a nod as he pocketed his share of the stealth generators.

They continued the walk back to the outpost, and brought their proof to Captain Jeelg, who was delighted that his theory had been proven correct.

“Aha! Holocommunicators with Kubaz markings on them! And… a Kubaz head. How… uh… thorough of you,” he said. “This will shut up those fools calling me paranoid. With this, I’ll finally prove there are spies all around us. My superiors can’t ignore this kind of evidence.”

“I’m pretty sure all the Kubaz are dead,” Zavahier pointed out.

“Yeah, we were _really_ thorough,” Sulis added.

“Nevertheless, you’ve done a great service for both me and the Empire, my friends. Take this, and my thanks,” Jeelg said, handing credit chips to both Zavahier and Sulis.

“Not bad for a couple hours work,” Sulis said appreciatively. She looked up at the now darkening sky, and added, “Reckon we should stay here tonight.”

Zavahier nodded his agreement. They’d covered a good part of the journey to Lord Grathan’s estate, and while they _could_ keep travelling, the jungle was more dangerous at night. Nothing he couldn’t handle, of course… but why make his life more difficult than it needed to be? This work camp was as convenient a place as any to rest. There’d be plenty of time to complete his mission tomorrow.


End file.
